sábado

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

From "Twelve Songs"

IX.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

April 1936

Escrito por W.H. Auden (1907-1973)

2 comentarios:

Caro Pé dijo...

Me gustó esta poesía, porque advierto rima, aunque sea en inglés, y mire que creo , creo, que a este tipo no lo tenía.
interesante parece la ciudad esta.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

Es de amor, termina triste.
Me gustó.

Tengo que recorer la ciudad ésta con más tiempo.
Estuve viendo así de pasada, algunas cosas interesantes.
que hay por abajo.

m. dijo...

Me gusta lo de "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone"