India is a symphony of creeds
I heard them every morning
As the grass laughs with the wind
In the smile of faces
Never seen before,
In the chaotic calm of their cities,
And in the sublime silence of its nights

Soul of the world

Maker of all philosophies

Port of the Oceans

Father of all creeds,

Shelter of the races

Thirty years ago

They also called me an Indian

In a school of South America

Where I was born

India, India, India

The hope of my hopeless era

The vindication of the self,

The convivial market of violence and peace

For if I once admired those willing to win

You've taught me to admire

                                                           those willing to live

Do you see all those
Sweet and credulous children
Nurtured by cherry trees
By smiles and tender gadgets
Stabbed by their parent's knife?

I was then proclaiming in a class
On the shores of the Bay of Bengal
The beauties of the human voice
"Where were you?"
They will ask to the last man
Still alive to mention Fukushima

For if death prevails
In 2011 we nurtured death
Allowing her to grow and simmer
In our own bosom, blinded by stress,
By greed and boredom
Exposing ourselves
To pollution, guilt and blame

That was the end after the end,
Unable to go on, he jumped over the fence
From a conflagration to a distant shore
Void where mistreat and desolation bred

Had he died in that relentless crash
His agitated soul would have found peace
But anguish was his token and his bread
In a land of well-off campuses and courts

Uttering verses of condolence
He sold his backbone to the globe
The best buyer tore his limbs
Reduced to cinders by the mob

The view of the horizon was bleak dark
By turning foes into his mourners
With an empty space beneath his feet
All his efforts were shattered by the winds

You knew it. Otherwise you'd have never let her go. No. You remained
silent, just to delay the conflagration. You wanted to witness my
humiliation. You knew the answer beforehand, because for you our first
date was just another chess-game defeat. Because for you Norida always
was a jealous, round-the-bend spinster. So, from the climax of your
lethargy you laughed. Don’t lie! You did it! And you didn’t even have
the shame to hide it. Because you foresaw the slaughtered pawns, the
betrayed black bishop, and the rotten gases from the Queen's dead
body.

If we lose everything
It's also true that we gain everything
We build all over sands
The the waves of time collect at night
Echoes of their voices talk at dawn

It will be fun to weave a tale: the good ant that saved the ostrich
against its will. The bird and the insect find each other in the same
space underground. The ostrich prompts the ant to save her from the
poachers. The ant, in silence, bites the ostrich in one of her
eyelids. The ostrich runs in pain and escapes from her pursuers ... I
can't remember the moral. Something like "bear your suffering." Maybe
you can help me. I know you like them. I have lived with your
personality for so long. (Sad.) I will describe you my life. So you
will know me, Michael. We can share the silence, as Japanese do.
Words are nervous. Then, drunk of silence, we'll make love. Dumb, bath
by the sunrise.

A theatre monologue by Hugo Santander:
http://www.hugosantander.com/theater_archivos/norida.html

Tonight I can write the saddest verses.

To write, for instance: «It is a starry night,
and the blue planets tremble far away. »

The wind of the night swirls in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest verses.
I loved her. Sometimes she also loved me.

In a night like this one I had her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She love me. Sometimes I also loved her.
How could I not have loved her great enduring eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest verses.
To think that I don't have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the verse falls in the soul as the dew on the lawn.

Who cares if my love was not enough to keep her
The night is starry and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far-off someone sings. Far-off.
My soul does not put up with her lost.

My sight seeks her, as to bring her closer.
My heart seeks her, and she is not with me.

The very night that whitens the same trees.
We, those of before, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searches the wind to touch her ear.

From other. She will be from other. As before my kisses.
Her voice, her clear body. Her boundless eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I still love her
Love is so short, and forgetfulness so long.

For in nights like this one I had her in my arms
My soul does not put up with her lost.

Though this one be the last sorrow I pour for her
And these the last verses that I write

Haven't you learnt to be silent

On your love? Do you think

It matters to the others?

You relished it in silence

Then, in silence, you must suffer it

Don't speak. Love is of a heart

That crumbles when you talk

It is born without words

And without words is fed

Only silence opens it

Like a flower. Cry in silence

But don't mention it

If love lives, live

If it dies, then die alone

Be silent between its birth and death

For love doesn't admit witnesses

 

Translation from the original poem by Luis Cernuda "Después de hablar"

Two paths drive you to knowledge: reading and meditation. Those who read are wise; those who meditate, enlightened. If you long for the truth, my child, meditate and read.