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East Coker_Four Quartets_T.S. Elliot

I        In my beginning is my end. In succession Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth Which is already flesh, fur and faeces, Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf. Houses live and die: there is a time for building And a time for living and for generation And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.        In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls Across the open field,, leaving the deep lane Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon, Where you lean against a bank while a van passes, And the deep lane insists on the direction Into the village, in the elctric heat Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sul...
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The Dry Salvages_Four Quartets_T.S. Elliot

I        I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river Is a strong brown god - sullen, untamed and intractable, Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier; Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce; Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges. The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten By the dwellers in cities - ever, however, implacable. Keeping his seasons, and rages, destroyer, reminder Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting. His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom, In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard, In the smell of grapes on the autumn table, And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.        The river is within us, the sea is all about us; The sea is the land's edge also, the granite, Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses Its hints of earlier and oth...
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Insaciable sed_Nahui Olin

 Mi espíritu y mi cuerpo tienen siempre loca sed de esos mundos nuevos que voy creando sin cesar, y de las cosas,  y de los elementos, y de los seres que tienen siempre nuevas fases bajo la influencia de mi espíritu, y mi cuerpo, que tienen siempre loca sed, inagotable sed de inquietud creadora que juega con los mundos nuevos que voy creando sin cesar y con las cosas que son una y que son mil, y con los elementos, y con los seres que me dan insaciable sed y que no sé si tienen algo de sangre, algo de carne o algo de espíritu, que sirven de juegos intermitentes a la sensibilidad de mi materia, y mi espíritu tiene siempre loca sed, pero loca sed de él mismo, de crear, poseer y destruir con otra creación de mayor magnitud que la que destruyó y mi espíritu tiene loca sed que nunca se extinguirá porque su personalidad única no permite comunión o posesión alguna de igual magnitud y en vano, en esos mundos nuevos que voy creando sin cesar en las cosas, en los elementos, en los seres ...
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