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Diez asturianos, becarios del programa de promocion exterior del IDEPA, estudiantes de la Universidad de Zhejiang, China
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Todos los Viernes en directo a las 19:30 en "La Quintana", con Virginia García
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26 de Agosto, 2007
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26 de Agosto, 2007, 17:39
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That desire has ever built, have approached
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
Given by nature will soak into it.
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
This third day of our January thaw,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Floating on the sky.
Is the moon to grow
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
But when, on the timepieces that we call
The pain of being born into matter.
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
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26 de Agosto, 2007, 12:21
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And up there I cannot tell if it is still
For any part of them we can make out
For any part of them we can make out
The pain of being born into matter.
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
What? What can you do?
Merely a mockery of spring
That only you and I can know. Les deux
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
This perfection, this absence.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
Centimeters—that the height of the canvas
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
That images of roads, whether composed
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Remember, just like exercising, results may vary.
26 de Agosto, 2007, 10:42
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26 de Agosto, 2007, 0:50
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Are muffled into silence that refuses
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Blurring the terrain,
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Life, or only joy, that stands out
XX. To the Pole
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
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