El mundo es un lugar para jugar

Me conmueven las palabras
no dichas de aquellos
a los que no dejan hablar.

Ojalá para ellos un día
la vida también fuera,
como para mi,
un juego.

carta a mi madre

Mi querida Antígona,
que lástima que en la distancia
y cuando mas me amarías,
no puedo ser tu Edipo.

Delante de los que escriben

¿A quién te gustaría tener al frente para hablar de libros y lecturas?

Contando historias

Podría guardar secretos a los visitantes
de un hotel entero;
ser la dama que oye historias
a viejos cuerpos solitarios.
Y ojalá un día encontrar
una oreja para susurrar.

IF

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Suavecito contigo la vida pasa

Estoy viviendo tu ahora.
Está hecho de días,
ni ayer, ni mañana existen.
Solo es mañana de mañana,
mientras saboreamos el primer tinto,
dos tostadas, miel y frutas.
Y anoche es cada noche,
la hora de meterme a tu lado,
de hacer la chimenea y deshacer la cama.