Games Of Torturing Ladies

For it is trite in a strange land

sometimes between straw are nuggets. Leo comments on the facebook, hypnotist absurd minds that we are becoming even more stupid than the Save me. And I find a poem that someone has posted Becquer. Trite, eh?. But suddenly, someone says, "Sometimes when you read Becquer believes it was all poetry written in their verses." I do not know if that comment comes from a true connoisseur of poetry or a Tolay anyone, but I realize he's right. Because Bécquer will sobadísimo, but in English literature there are few like him, with the ability to compile all previous tradition of breaking new ground for poetry that would follow (without Becquer, for example, Lorca had not been the same.) And in a language that reaches everyone, and the same folders used to fill teenagers to philosophize about existentialism romantic end of the century (nineteenth century, that is). Because as I said Pepa, rhyme about the swallows, "it's always served Bécquer for broken or tearing, but rarely poses as the memory of the fleeting and unrepeatable, time has not been recovered." And it is true, how easy would dismiss the poet from Seville, more difficult is to realize the true depths of their seemingly simple vital words.

Come to me, as my facebook friends, I also left one of Becquer. The wave, which I love:

giant waves that break with roaring
on deserted beaches and remote
enveloped in a sheet of foam,
away with you!

hurricane gusts snatch
high withered forest leaves,
drawn into the maelstrom blind,
away with you!

breaking storm clouds lightning and fire
detached ornáis the fringes,
caught between the dark mist,
away with you!

Take me out of pity to where vertigo
reason I start with the memory.
For pity's sake! I have
afraid to be alone with my pain!