Tuesday, October 7, 2008

England in 1819 (Or Cuba in 2008?)

Gobernantes que ni ven, ni sienten, ni saben, pero que se aferran como sanguijuelas a su debilitado país. Un pueblo hambriento y acuchillado en la tierra sin cultivar. Tumbas de las que un glorioso fantasma pudiera salir para iluminar nuestro tempestuoso día.


An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,--mud from a muddy spring,
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,
An army, which liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless--a book sealed;
A Senate,--Time's worst statute unrepealed,
Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestous day.

Percy Bysshe Shelley


Isis said...

Un ejemplo del "misterio" de la poesía. De su poder.
Thanks, Ernesto.

Ernesto G. said...

Asi mismo es, Isis.