Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Average Dress Size In Japan

Paul Verlaine and Manuel Machado 2


Mon rêve familier

I often have this strange and penetrating dream
one unknown woman and I love and who loves me
And that is, each time, not quite the same, while Ni
in fact another who loves me and understands me.

Because she understands me and my heart, transparent
For her alone, alas! ceases to be a problem
For her alone, and the sweat of my brow,
She only knows how to cool, crying.

Is it brown, blonde or redhead? I do not know.
His name? I remember it is sweet and sound
As those that loved life exiled.

Her gaze is like the gaze of the statues,
And his voice distant, so calm and grave, she
The inflection of dear voices that were silenced.


Paul Verlaine

My dream pet read by Francois Perier


Mi sueño familiar

a menudo el sueño Tengo extraño y penetrating,
una desconocida I love and who loves me
and is not always or entirely the same nor completely
other and loves me and understands me.

Because she understands me, and my heart
transparent to herself, alas! longer a problem,
for herself and the burner of my pale face
she knows just freshen crying.

Is brown, blond or red? I do not know.
name? I remember that sound is sweet and
as the beloved who banished life.

His look is similar to the statues look
and his voice distant and quiet y serious tiene
the inflection las voces han Callado that querida.

MANUEL MACHADO

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Tax Credit Fordonated Car

Robert de Montesquiou and Luis Antonio de Villena



NOTICE

you who dislike the air of delightful roses
Avoid this garden where flowers do little;
Where the exhortation of the blue hydrangea,
Chilly, gloomy corymbs its blossoms.

hydrangeas whose blue light is late
disgracing the bee and scare sparrows,
inconspicuous And, around the front of its hero, What
bats throughout a league.

Swarms mysterious, enigmatic flowers
Snowballs glaucous and dragonfly atrocious
Bee silence ray colorless,

Who made his solitary and fierce honey
where the massive moon has left her pallor
Falling from the heavens, his pale coach.

Robert de Montesquiou


ADVERTENCIA

that gustas Tú sólo el aire encantador de las rosas,
evita este jardín in bloom soon,
where the call of the blue hydrangea,
chilly, is expanding its corymbs arrears.

whose light blue Hydrangeas
dead bee to shame and dread of the sparrow, and do not attract
on the front of his heroes, but bats
over a league.

Swarms mysterious, enigmatic flowers
snowballs glauca and dragonfly atrocious
bee silent, colorless ray,

that makes her lonely and wild honey in the parterre
in the moon dejo caer su Palor
, alto cielo, su palid Carroz.

Versión of Luis Antonio de Villena

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Dilated Cervix For Dogs

Stéphane Mallarmé and Proust



windows

Tired of sad hospital, and foul incense
Who rises in the ordinary white curtains
Towards the large crucifix weary of empty wall,
The moribund surnois straightens an old back

drags and goes less to heat their
rot than to see the sun on the stones, glue
The white hair and bones the thin face
the windows a beautiful ray light tan wants,

And the mouth, feverish and azure blue voracious
This young, she went to her breathe treasure
skin and once virginal! From a long foul
bitter kiss the warm tiles of gold.

Drunk, he lives, forgetting the horrors of the holy oils, herbal teas
, the clock and the bed inflicted
cough, and when the night is bleeding from the tiles,
His eye on the horizon light gorged,

Sees galleys gold, beautiful as swans
on a river of crimson and of perfumes sleep In
cradling the tawny flash and rich in their lines in a large
nonchalance loaded with memory!

Thus, taken from the disgust of the man with the soul lasts
Sprawled in happiness, where his selfish
Eat, and insists on looking for that junk
To offer the woman suckling her young,

I am and I cling to every window
Hence it rotates the shoulder to life, and blessed
In their glass, washed eternal dews, gilded by the morning
chaste Infinity

I focus see me and angel! and I die, and I
- That the glass be art or mysticism -
To be reborn, wearing my dream tiara
In heaven where earlier blossoms Beauty!

But, alas! Here below is the master: his obsession
Just sickens me sometimes to this safe haven, and vomiting
impure Stupidity
me strength to hold my nose to the sky.

Is there a way, oh I know that the bitterness
to drive the crystal
insulted by the monster and run away with my two featherless wings
- At the risk of tomber pendant l'éternité?

Stephane Mallarme


windows

Tired of the hospital and smelling incense That
trivial amounts in the white curtains
Towards
Wall cross-weary solitude
Their backs up the man in agony,

Creeps and is not so much by his wounds
warm to see the sun much closer, to stick, With the gray
and bones of his lean figure,
Al crystal bright large windows,

And feverish mouth, azure blue anxious
Tal, young breathed his pleasure more valuable
- A virgin skin and other time! -
tarnishes
With long kiss sour the warm glass of gold.

Drunk, lives, oblivious to the horror of the oils,
Clock, teas, and even the bed done,
cough, when the later bleeds on the tiles,
His eye, the horizon full of brightness,

Go
gold galleries, beautiful swans,
Asleep on a river purple and fragrant, Rocking
tawny reflections of their lines
In a large lazy loaded with nostalgia!

So with disgust by hard man,
mired in pleasures that their appetites
eat alone, and still looking for that mud
to give the nursing mother to her children,

I flee, run away and cling to all windows
Wherever the back to live, blessed,
in your glass, wash sprays
eternal morning Dora Infinite breed.

I look and I see angel lay down and wish
"That the glass is the art, or mysticism-
flaunting my dream Reborn which
headband above In heaven Beauty in bloom.

Mas ay! The Here-below is the master, their treatment is often disgusted
often even in this quiet,
And with their unclean Stupidity makes me vomit
to cover my face in front of the azure.

Is there any way, oh Yo you know the anguish,
to sink and the monster that has insulted the glass-run
And then, with my wings without feathers,
A risk of eternity? Translation

JOSE ANGEL Battistessa