El nido


Mira ese árbol que a los cielos

sus ramas eleva erguido;

en ellas columpia un nido

en que duermen tres polluelos.

Ese nido es un hogar;

no lo rompas, 

no lo hieras:

sé bueno y deja a las fieras,

el vil placer de matar.

Juan de Dios Peza. México (1852-1910)

Who is my neighbor?


Who is thy neighbour! -see him stand,

with sunken cheek and eye,

where hunger shows the empty hand

thy bounty can supply!


Look where the widowed mother pines

for what thou well canst spare;

where palsied age, in want, reclines,

and see thy neighbour there!

Behold him in the stranger, thrown

upon a foreign shore,

who, homeless, friendless, and alone,

is shivering at thy door!


Go meet him in thine enemy,

and good for evil pay;

and bear in mind, for such as he,

thy Saviour bids thee pray.

Go seek him in the dungeon’s night,

and comfort there impart;

implore the smile of Heaven to light

that desolated heart.


Look where the son of Africa sighs

for rights enjoyed by thee;

he is thy neighbour! -loose his ties

and set the captive free!

Columbia, favored of the skies!

how can thy banner wave,

while at thy feet, thy neighbour lies

A crushed and fettered slave?

There is a blot among its stars;

a stain upon thy hand;

a mark upon thy face, that mars

the beauty of our land!


Thou, noble tree of liberty,

should not thy verdure fade

o’er him who would his neighbour see

excluded from thy shade?


Did they who reared thee by their toil

bot will thy fruit to be,

alike, for all who tread thy soil,

a harvest sweet and free?

Hannah Flagg Gould.  EEUU (1789-1865)

The crocus’s soliloquy


Down in my solitude under the snow,

where nothing cheering can reach me; 

here, without light to see how to grow,

I’ll trust to nature to teach me. 


I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown,

Lock’d in so gloomy a dwelling;

my leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down,

while the bud in my bosom is swelling.


Soon as the frost will get out of my bed,

from this cold dungeon to free me,

I will peer up with my little bright head;

all will be joyful to see me.


Then from my heart will young petals diverge,

as rays of the sun from their focus;

I from the darkness of earth will emerge,

a happy and beautiful crocus.


Gaily array’d in my yellow and green,

when to their view I have risen,

will they not wonder that one so serene

came from so dismal a prison?


Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower

his little lesson may borrow —

patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour, 

we come out the brighter tomorrow.

Hannah Flagg Gould.  EEUU (1789-1865)

The fly’s revenge


“So” -said a fly, as he paused and thought

how he had just been brushed about,

“they think, no doubt, I am next to nought 

put into life but to be put out!”


“Just as if, when our Maker planned

his mighty scheme, he had quite forgot

to grant the work of his skillful hand,

the peaceful fly, an biding spot!”


“they grudge me even a breath of air,

a speck of earth and a ray of sun!

This is more than a fly can bear;

now I’ll pay them for what they’ve done!”


First he lit on the idle thumb

of a poet; and «now for your thoughts” -said he,

“wherever they soar, I”ll make them come

down, from their towering flight, to me.”

He went and tickled the nasal tip

of a scholar, and over his brain let slip

a chain of gems, that had just been strung.


Off to a crowded church he flew,

and over the faces boldly stepped;

pointing out to the pastor’s view,

how many sheep in the pasture slept;

he buzzed about a lady’s ear,

just as a youth, with piteous sigh,

popped the question she would not hear,

and only answered, “a saucy fly!”


He washed his feet in the worthless tear

a belle at the theatre chanced to weep;

“rouge in the bath” -he cried, “my dear,

your cheek has a blush that is not skin deep!”


On the astronomer’s pointed glass

he leisurely stood and stretched his wing;

for here, he knew, he was sure to pass

for quite a great and important thing.


“Now is the time -said he- my man,

to measure the fly from head to heel!

Number the miles, and, if you can,

name the planets that I conceal”

“What do you call the twinkling star

over the spot that you see me tread,

and the beatiful cluster of lights afar,

ranged in the heavens above my head?”


“Ah! It is station that swell us all,

at once, to a size that were else unknown!

And now, if ever I hear you call

my race and order beneath your own,

I’ll tell the world of this comic scene

and how will they laugh to hear that I,

small as you think of me, can stand between

you and your views of the spacious sky!”

Hannah Flagg Gould.  EEUU (1789-1865)



Aged man, with locks so hoary,

high estate dost thou possess!

They appear thy crown of glory

in the way of righteousness.


Jewels, not of man’s preparing,

form the shining diadem,

thou art from thy sovereign wearing:

God’s own finger silvered them.


Thine are honors, proved and heightened

by the gift of lengthened years;

in afliction’s furnace brightened,

tried by cares, and washed with tears.


Like thy Master, meek and lowly,

thou a thorny earth hast trod;

with thy breast a high and holy

temple of the living God.


Aged saint, thy form is bending,

sere and withered, to the tomb;

but thy spirit, upward tending,

budded for immortal bloom.

Hannah Flagg Gould.  EEUU (1789-1865)

Decir, hacer


Entre lo que veo y digo,

entre lo que digo y callo,

entre lo que callo y sueño,

entre lo que sueño y olvido

la poesía

se desliza entre el sí y el no:


lo que callo,


lo que digo,


lo que olvido.

No es un decir: es un hacer.

Es un hacer que es un decir.

La poesía se dice y se oye: es real.

Y apenas digo es real, se disipa.

¿Así es más real?

Idea palpable,

palabra impalpable: 

la poesía va y viene entre lo que es

y lo que no es.

Teje reflejos y los desteje.

La poesía

siembra ojos en las páginas

siembra palabras en los ojos.

Los ojos hablan

las palabras miran,

las miradas piensan.

Oír los pensamientos,

ver lo que decimos,

tocar el cuerpo de la idea.

Los ojos se cierran

las palabras se abren.

Pablo Neruda. Chile (1904-1973)

En el otoño



en el otoño de nuestras vidas,

abrazamos y acariciamos

con infinita nostalgia,

miles de recuerdos.

La travesura escondida,

los primeros besos fortuitos,

robado el amor imposible que nos ignoró siempre,

los nervios ante exámenes difíciles,

el vestido sin estrenar,

la amiga que nos traicionó

o aquella que alzó sus alas y nos dejó.


viviendo el otoño,

disfrutamos de las hojas caídas,

del sol brillante que anuncia los días,

de la luna traviesa que se esconde entre las nubes.


viviendo en el otoño existencial

nos reímos de aquello que nos atormentaba,

nos perdonamos por no haber llegado a donde quisimos llegar.

Viviendo el otoño de nuestras vidas

el valor de las cosas cambia de sentido.

Valoramos más los abrazos,

los amigos sinceros,

los besos furtivos de los hijos construyendo sus vidas,

los besos mojados de los nietos inquietos.

Amamos diferente y más profundamente al compañero de vida,

sí, ese que ha hecho la travesía vital a tu lado.

Valoramos la soledad y la compañía.

Esa doble dimensión de saber estar sola contigo misma

y compartir tu alma y sus anhelos con tus amigas.


viviendo mi propio otoño

no tengo lamentos, remordimientos y temores.

Solo quiero disfrutar cada día,

tener sueños,

planes y proyectos.

Y decir gracias al Dios de la vida

mientras espero el frío invierno existencial

y, por qué no, la despedida.

Mukien A. Sang Ben. Rep. Dominicana (1955 – )

El caracol herido


El caracol Colcol,

el otro día,

no sacó sus cuernos al sol

porque llovía.

El caracol Colcol,

cuando dormía la siesta,

rodó por una cuesta

y se rompió la testa.

(Se estrelló en la carretera).

Le vió un perro galgo.

-Señor caracol, ¿le pasa algo?

-¡Ay, ay, ay, de ésta no salgo!

-¿Se ha roto la cabeza?

-¡No! ¡Me he roto la casa!

Llévame al veterinario

que me ponga una gasa,

una gasa, una gasa.

-Mejor, un esparadrapo

-dijo el doctor don Sapo.

-Doctor don Sapo, usted sepa

que tengo goteras;

la lluvia cala mi casa,

que me he roto la azotea.

El veterinario le operó.

Le curó la concha,

le juntó los pedazos,

le puso unas tiritas

de arriba abajo.

¡Qué trabajo!

Después le escayoló

y el caracol Colcol

se convirtió

en una pelota de pimpón.

Cuando le quitaron la escayola,

el caracol sacó los cuernos y dijo:


Gloria Fuerte.

España (1908-1998)