Tonight it's going to snow.
What will the goldfinch do? The jilguerito, what will he do ?
He will sit in the barn and there he will warm.
In the mantle of wings his head will hide.
Poor little jilguerito!
Flying, that you are going to freeze!
Anonymous
Blow, East wind, that nothing moves here.
The earth is waiting to feel your joyful step.
The trees have tiptoed to see you.
Do not be late. Blow, arrives, East wind.
Listen to me. I call you desperately.
José Agustín Goytisolo
Alejandro Casona
The fog
Rolling through the mountains the mist fell to the field.
Got tangled in gorse, tousled in the poplars, caught on thorns, lay down in the pastures.
He left the whole landscape blindfolded.
Where does the white girl go tomorrow, if the snow has curdled on the mountain ?
When the white girl goes up to the mountains, in streams the snow flees from envy.
No worries, little wind, in such a hurry, because to the sound of the waters my girl sleeps.
Anonymous
Doing the round, the afternoon left us.
The sun has fallen; the mountain does not burn.
But the round will continue although the sun is not in the sky.
Gabriela Mistral
Silver flakes fall from the sky, moonbeams, scarlet light, water crystals, gentle winds, lead clouds, bird bands, the night falls, the shadow grows, stars are born.
When it dawns everyone admires, amazed, flowers perched on the meadows.
Lope de Vega
Sing
Icy mountains and magnificent cliffs, ancient oaks and robust pines, give way to the waters in clean streams that flow to the valleys from the cold ice. Sing nightingales and with sweet whistles their loves tell these green myrtles. Make birds with a new device for their loving young nests.
Doña Tormenta is coming; already comes with his torment, and the blacks of Cuba get stiff bangs.
In the cypress trees, the Owls.
In the pines, the owls.
In the poplars, the rooks.
On the brooms, the witches.
Abracadabra!
Crowbars!
Everyone screams it!
Everyone speaks it!
The birds fly over the mountain.
Gloria Fuertes
All the barnacles on the rocks sing.
All the seagulls on the sea await Dona Storm with its long rain, with its black rays, with his white cape.
Silkworms die on the branches, under the Abracadabra storm.
Owls shiver under the water.
- in the stall the frogs laugh.
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the farmers pray to the Saint.
How the wind sounds, son!
Son, how the wind sounds! Like straps their untied hair snaps…
Duérmete bien tapadito; don't listen to him, how scary… We will close the windows, we will fan the fire…
Mother, let me out.
I will chain that wind. I will braid his manes for my new whip.
ANGELA FlGUERA AYMERICH
Don't be afraid of the noise you hear outside, is the wind that runs on the grass.
Do not be afraid of the wind that he is your friend, the south wind is good for children.
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when the day comes you will go out to the field and play with the wind over the meadows.
Jose Luis Hidalgo
Soft little winds
Soft little winds, la risa template; parad, shut up, don't blow; Well, my girl sleeps and rests, don't wake her up.
Jose de Valdivieso
In the mornings of the month of May the nightingales sing, the field rejoices.
In the mornings, how are they fresh, the nightingales cover the avenues.
Laugh the fountains throwing pearls to the flowers that are closest.
Dress the plants in various silks, it costs them little to get colors.
The fields cheer several rugs; the nightingales sing, the field rejoices.
Lope de Vega
Without roses, spring is born, and ask for alms from door to door. Give him, girl, a handful of roses from your cheeks.
Popular
Maps. Geography.
Landscape lesson.
The atlas guides us.
What a good trip!
Islas, rivers, montes, and you no longer run away.
Wide horizons.
The world on maps.
The neighboring town and the distant country.
The same destination: both in your hand.
Names of other men. See if you catch them.
What a heaven of names, travel the maps!
Mares, land, far and so close everything.
New worlds, old, each in their own way.
Scroll through the maps: you already have a ticket.
Goodbye, if you run away, and happy travel!
The sky has been covered with white clouds. It seems that the hills are tired and they sleep you stay on the back of my stud.
In my lap the sheep looks at you and shoots.
-
I, that of the cattle and the meadow I am loves, I feel sad and my eyes wander in the distance.
Indian child, if you are tired you lie down on the earth, and the same if you are happy, my son, play with her…
Wonderful things are heard from the Indian drum of the Earth: You can hear the fire that rises and falls looking for the sky, and does not calm.
Wheel and wheel, rivers are heard in waterfalls that are not counted. You hear the animals moo; the ax is heard eating the jungle. Indian looms are heard, threshing is heard, parties are heard.
Where the indian is calling him, the indian drum answers him, and tolls close and tolls far, what is running away and what is coming back…
Everything loads, he takes it all and there is no treasure to lose, and carries what sleeps on his back, what walks and what sails, and leads to the living and leads to the dead the Indian drum of the Earth.
Gabriela Mistral
Watch out, don't cross the corner! that a car passing is honking: investigator, investigator, investigator.
The train is arriving with its black locomotive, children see and hear it: chi-tora, chi-tora, chi-tora.
Time to go to school, so said mom, seeing the clock that said: tick, tick, tick.
The factory with its chimney fills everything with smoke, and calls with her siren: rúo-uo, rúo-uo, rúo-uo.
And the church in the square has bells that tell the hour that passes: in-dan, in-dan, in-dan.
Tibor Sekelj
In my street, every night the car headlights shine.
I watch from my window how they crawl reluctantly; they pass slow and bright like giant beetles.
They leave behind a silver trail, of green and scarlet lights.
Song of the nun on a bicycle
Maria Elena Walsh
An angel has sat on my handlebars.
The wings of the blonde angel caress me.
I was so tired of always flying; that's why he asked me to walk him.
People on the street look and laugh at the happy nun and the sad angel.
Brother wind, help our career: we want to go to heaven by bicycle.
A green bus is coming to pick us up, a green bus that never gets lost: know the streets, know the houses, every corner, the whole city.
Know where you live or where you pass and always regulate your speed.
Red light! The shiny bus stops.
Green light! He continues his march. And it is rare that we do not find things to see, Well, it takes us like a hundred paradises, our green bus, which has two floors, and never tires of walking and running.
The fast locomotive, like iron lightning that smolders, dreaming, the kilometers devours and arrogant and howling crosses the plain and climbs the hill.
Of plumed white smoke - black the iron, of gold the furnace—, through a threaded tunnel, ya tiznada, already golden, with frantic whistle he announces himself to the contour.
From the hills escape with giant strides goes the machine launched on a frenetic bridge.
Before the flaming oven the silhouette of the fireman,* by the fire outlined, it already smudges, it's already golden.
-
in his position, the machinist with a watchful eye sees the dangers.
Victorious and resonant, already golden, ya tiznada, there the fast locomotive runs rampant…
German Berdiales
Train of the day, stopped in front of the thistle on the road.
Trains
- Cantinera, my girl, my heart stays in your glass of cold water.
Night train, stopped in front of the blue saber of the river.
-Fisherman, boatman of mine, my heart stays in your cold black boat.
Rafael Alberti
Through olive trees and olive trees, look how the train runs.
Through olive trees and olive trees.
You see it, you don't see it running?
The two thirty train.
The train!
Through olive trees and olive trees,
¿ who will come, who will come in it ?
Will a silversmith from Córdoba come? A farmer from Jaén?
Through olive trees and olive trees,
It's coming, yes, girl, the train!
Juan Rejano
Like a great steel bird the plane crosses the whole sky.
Airplane: in my hand I love you.
I want to be a good pilot, fly very high to the unknown sky.
Airplane: I already notice you in my hand.
Javier Vilar
The diligent working elevator takes a lot of people up and down.
The bellboy obeys, He is not reluctant or replies and goes to the floor that indicates.
If one day it doesn't stop, get on
like the wind and will reach the sky.
Not for ever: enter three, two come out and each time they say: goodbye, goodbye.
In department stores is what I like the most: upload everyone effortlessly, It's a great invention!
The escalator
Overloaded ladies can't buy anymore. The elegant gentlemen read without looking. You put one foot on the step and you can't turn back.
—I have arrived. -I'll be right back. —I come to see you.
-Do not wait for me. —Tomorrow I'll hug you.
One, From, three, one, From, three, the telegraph poles next to my train.
Celia Viñas
One, From, three, again
the telegraph poles next to my train.
One, From, three, one, From, three.
How I like to go to return!
Blue telegrams I'll put later.
North, sure, It is, west, one, From, three.
A letter is like a fairy or like a goblin, a paper, almost nothing, who speaks for me and takes my voice away from here and goes where I want.
Passes rivers: the Ebro, the Rio de la Plata, the Douro, cross seas, cross mountains, go down to the mine, Flying, run, browse, walk; and when she arrives she is not at all tired as if a fairy had carried her on her wings.
Ricardo E. Pose
Captain
Mother, I already have my boat and I have a crew: four masted sailboat, cardboard sailors.
Tomorrow morning when the sun rises I'll go, sending my brave crew on the ship.
Prepare my cap soon,
My captain's hat!, I left the sailor blouse by the sea.
-Mother, dress me in the style of the seafaring lands: the bell bottom, the ultramarine blue blouse and the miraculous ribbon. -Where are you going, sailor, through the streets of the earth ? -I go through the streets of the sea!
Rafael Alberti
Suit of mine, suit mine, I can never dress you, they won't let me go to the sea! You will never see me, city, with my sailor suit. Saved is in the closet, they don't even let me try it.
My mother has locked it up for me, so that it does not go to the sea.
Rafael Alberti
Coal boat, black the sailor.
Black, in the wind, sailing. Black, by sea, the wake. How black your sail!
The mermaid does not love him.
Swordfish hurt you. Black his life in the sea!
Rafael Alberti
How high
the balconies of my house! But you can't see the sea.
How low!
Goes up, goes up, my balcony, climb into the air, non-stop: I know terrace of the sea, be a ship tower.
Sailor ashore
- Whose flag will that watchtower be?? "Sailors, It's mine!
Rafael Alberti
If I was born a peasant, if I was born a sailor,
Why do you have me here, and it is here I do not want it ?
The best day, city I have never loved, the best day — Silence !- I will have disappeared.
R^t^lberti
On the seashore I look for a red fish, since I'm a little girl, my hands slip away.
Maitina's song
My hands slip away, they leave me with the moon, And the jumping waves splash me with foam.
They splash me with foam and my dress gets wet.
At the sea's shore,
How the waves jump!
How the waves jump!
How they come jumping! With the biggest wave comes a red fish.
A red fish is coming, i can't catch it, since I'm a little girl, my fingers break.
Luis Felipe Vivanco :
The watermelon smiles when it opens.
For whom ?
Concha Zardoya
I For whom the white watermelon ?
For whom?
I For the black man who reaps the cane?
For whom?
At the bottom of the sea there is a glass house.
To an avenue of mothers.
A big gold fish, at five o'clock, he comes to greet me.
Brings me a red bouquet of coral flowers.
I sleep in a bed a little more blue than the sea.
An octopus winks at me through the glass.
In the green forest that surrounds me —din don… din dan— the sea-green mother-of-pearl sirens sway and sing.
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above my head they burn, in the twilight, the bristling tips of the sea.
Alfonsina Storni
¡Ay, Ms, my neighbor!…
¡Ay, Ms, my neighbor, my hen died!
With his red crest and the whole yellow suit, I will no longer see her dressed, walking in the henhouse, Well lady my neighbor, my hen died Sunday morning; yes, Ms, my neighbor, Sunday morning; ay, Ms, my neighbor, Sunday morning.
Look at me how I sweat, with the mourning pen and the widowed rooster!
Look at me how I cry, with the shattered chest and the rooster in chorus!
¡Ay, Ms, my neighbor, how can I not cry if my hen died!
Nicolas Guillén
He are! He are! He are!
The zebra galloping ?
He are! Do you hear the son?
Huge elephants, called by a god ?
He are! He are! He are!
Do they invite to dance ?
Is he from the water? He are! Tam-tam that does not shut up… What dances, negro! He are!
Concha Zardoya
He are! He are! He are!
-
you dance with joy, and you dance in pain,
and you dance when you hate, and you dance for love.
He are! He are! He are!
-
you dance when you pray: your dance is devotion.
Your dance is a hobby, spell under the sun.
He are! He are! He are! The sand of grief is stepped on in the danzón.
-
dance or don't dance, your heart dances.
He are! He are! He are!
You are happy at night,
happier than the white man.
If you want, nobody sees what you do with your hands, what you do with your feet, what you do with your lips.
Invisible, you dance dances, you jump to the moon.
You wink behind the shadow and undo sorrow and tears.
In the Louisiana night you are happier than white!
Concha Zardoya
Hangs hanging, hang in the wind, the fat windward moon.
Mar: Higuerote. (The jungle smeared with chapapote.)
River: Little River.
(On a palm, fan green, a black-beaked zamuro sleeps.)
White and tired the fat moon hangs hanging.
The same song and the same story, under the windward moon.
Hungry nigga, rope legs, wire arms.
Black in shirt, ash-colored tuberculosis.
Black at home, bed in the sudo, stove without charcoal.
What a thing, sadder sad, more pitiful!
(White and tired, the fat moon hangs hanging.)
It sounds, windward guitar, what you say is carried by the wind.
—Dorón dorando, a black sings, and is crying.
—Dorón dorendo, know, friends, I'm not selling myself.
"Doron is in pain.", if i get up, I no longer give up.
—Dorón dorondo, of a hungry black I do not answer.
(White and tired, the fat moon hangs hanging.)
Nicolas Guillén
A paper boat walks through the West Indies: the boat goes on and on, no helmsman.
From Havana to Portobelo, from Jamaica to Trinidad, the boat goes on and on, without captain.
A black woman goes in the stern, a Spaniard goes in the bow: the boat goes on and on, with them two.
Islands pass, islas, islas, many islands, always more; the boat goes on and on, without resting.
A chocolate cannon against the ship shot, and a sugar cannon, zúcar, I answer.
¡Ay, my sailor ship, with his straw helmet!
¡Ay, my black ship "‘ ^ boasted without a rudder! . •«’
I:-* ■ • ■
.. jm ¡.
There goes the black stream, together jup ^ to Spanish; you and. The boat is going with c31<>s dos.
Jgfi: ‘- ‘ Nicolas Guillén
Lullaby to wake up a black boy
A singing dove passes: "Hope.", my nigga, that the sun burns! Nobody sleeps anymore, nor is he at home; nor the crocodile, nor the yaguaza, nor the snake, nor the dove… Coco, cacao, chub, cachaza, Hope, my nigga, that the sun burns!
Negrazo, come with your nigga.
Air with air, that the sun burns! Look at the people, calling pass people on the street, people in the square, no one is left at home… Coco, cacao, chub, cachaza,
Hope, my nigga, that the sun burns!
Negron, black plum and raisin, get out and wake up, that the sun burns, say awake what happens to you…
Nobody sleeps anymore, nor is he at home: ¡coco, cacao, chub, cachaza, upa, my nigga, that the sun burns!
Nicolas Guillén
But sir
If I could travel to the moon, will travel, but sir,
to find out if your face is clean.
But sir,
but sir, My Lord, but sir, and know if it's hot or cold.
But sir.
The painter has his brushes, the poet has his pen, but sir,
the wind has its birds and the sea its foam.
But sir,
but sir, My Lord, but sir, the iguana is hot and the bear, cold.
But sir.
Before, I didn't know why we all must — day after day-
always go ahead, until, How do you say, that the body endure.
Now I know.
If you come with me I will tell you.
José Agustín Goytisolo
Once upon a time there was a good little wolf who was abused by all the lambs.
José Agustín Goytisolo
-
there were, too, a bad prince, a beautiful witch and an honest pirate.
All these things had once. When I dreamed of an upside down world.
Happy, in your fields. Happy, in your garden. Happy, in the village of your birth.
Happy, at your door that the wind does not beat. Happy, in the shadow that your eaves weave.
Happy, in your world. Happy, if not far from everything yours. Happy, in your kingdom!
(Happy, in its heather, the meek rabbit!)
Concha Zardoya
Big words don't boil water.
Big words are useless.
The acts you do will move mountains.
Concha Zardoya
Camilo J. This
Armando Mondéjar López is a wondering child; has red hair the color of paprika.
(The orange is already dry, yellow is the lemon.)
(Watermelon is crying, the melon is laughing.)
Armando Mondéjar López stands in the sun; his fur glows as his heart burns,
and in his gaze it lights up, little by little, the illusion. He has red hair the color of paprika.
Anonymous
For the month it was May when it's hot, when the calender sings and the nightingale responds, when lovers go to serve love, but me sad, take care that I live in this prison, I do not know when it is day or when the nights are but because of a little bird that sang to me at dawn: a crossbowman kill her;
God give him a bad reward!
Manuel Flores is going to die.
That is common currency; dying is a habit that people know how to have.
Tomorrow the bullet will come and with the bullet oblivion; said the wise Merlin: to die is to have been born.
-
however it hurts me to say goodbye to life, that usual thing, so sweet and so well known.
I look at my hands at dawn, I look at the veins in the hands; with surprise I look at them as if they were strangers.
How many things in their path these eyes have seen!
Who knows what they will see after Christ judges me.
Manuel Flores is going to die.
That is common currency; dying is a habit that people know how to have.
Jorge Luis Borges
I will tell you the story of the two lazy people who wanted to get married and who were anxious; both the same lady hung around greedy.
They were very handsome and you will see how beautiful!
The one-eyed one was from his right eye, hoarse was the other, lame and half twisted; one against the other had great spite seeing each one his marriage made.
The lady replied that she wanted to marry the laziest: that one wants to drink.
This is what the owner said wanting to outwit them.
The lame man spoke at once; wanted to advance:
"Ma'am," he said., hear my reason first, I am lazier than this my companion.
For laziness to step up the step I fell from the ladder, I did this injury.
Another day I was swimming in the river,
because the hottest summer was hot;
I was thirsty, but such laziness kid
than, for not opening your mouth, hoarse is my talk.
After the lame man stopped, said the one-eyed man: -Ms, small is the laziness of which he spoke now; I will talk about mine, No improvement, no other can find a man who adores God.
I was in love with a lady in April, being close to her, submissive and manly, I came to the nose vile descent: due to laziness in cleaning myself I lost a gentle owner.
Even more I will say, Ms: one night I was lying in bed awake and it rained very hard; give me a drip of the water that fell into my eye; often and very hard it hurt me.
Due to laziness I did not want my head to change; the leak I say, with his very strong giving, the eye that you see hollow ended up breaking.
For being lazier you must marry me.
"I don't know," said the owner, "from all that you talk, what laziness is bigger, both pairs are; well i see, clumsy lame, which foot do you limp; well i see, dirty one-eyed man, that you always look bad.
Find who to marry, Well there is no woman who adores a lazy clumsy or falls in love with a vile.
Thus, my friend, that in your soul there is no more defect or vileness that your bearing desdore.
Juan Ruiz, Archpriest of Hita Version of María Brey Mariño
You already have it, I hardly see my words that the wind does not carry them away
Put what is written there are things that I do not even want to repeat
What I said was the wind shouldn't be erased. Clears the wind in its path with so much breeze couples in love.
Well, I without memory or partner only remember a breeze that does not stop and the absence of my princess. From .I bica the air was his was a lullaby. I was just a great chapter