lunes, 13 de febrero de 2012

To think or not to think: that is the question

Foto: Thinking de karola riegler photography

To be, or not to be by William Shakespeare [Hamlet]

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.

...con lo fácil y maravilloso que es... volverse a la cama.

Para entenderlo mejor os recomiendo leer: Does this have to be so complicated...

sábado, 4 de febrero de 2012

El pájaro

Cuadro: Pájaros muertos de Pablo Picasso (1912, Museo Reina Sofía)

El pájaro de Juan Gelman

Diciendo pájaro lo destruí
y eso no tiene perdón.
El pájaro sigue volando.
Lo he destruido en mí, no más.
Ya no vuela, ya no
Construye su nido en el árbol que no soy ni
agita su pensamiento en mí.
Se perdió entre la enramada y el humo del atrio.
¿Quién soy para él?
Ya nada.
Antes me visitaban lo que perdí
y el recuerdo de lo que perdí.
Ahora son silencio descifrado
y ciertas esperanzas han muerto.