Cárceles de la antigua sede del Tribunal del Santo Oficio en la Nueva España.


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Helena

Helena, el mundo está en silencio porque no existes.  Las nubes caminan sobre el campo azul y sus pasos no se escuchan. La lluvia se estrella contra las ventanas sin que su sonido sea percibido.  No existe tu llanto llenando la habitación a media noche. No existe tu risa en el bosque, junto al lago.  Nadie ha de pronunciar nunca tu nombre. Nunca voy a conocer tu olor, nunca voy a acariciarte. El océano vibra desde sus profundidades y escupe su espuma en el litoral pero su rugido ha enmudecido. Apenas fuiste un deseo, una minúscula posibilidad. Apenas fuiste todo lo que me faltó para darme cuenta de que caer al vacío era el primer paso para volar. No hay materia a la cual nombrar o sepultar, por eso dejo evidencia de ti en estas palabras. Todo hubiera sido dado, sólo por ver el mundo a través de tu mirada. No hubo hechizo o pócima para traerte a mis brazos. Incluso el viento ha venido a despeinarme en total sigilo. El mundo calla porque no estas conmigo. Alguien me escribi...
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To you_Walt Withman

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams, I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you, Your true soul and body appear before me, They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying. Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you. O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago, I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you. I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you, None has understood you, but I understand you, None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself None but has found you imperfect, I only fi...
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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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