To Be or Not to Be…

febrero 11, 2009

To be, or not to be–that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep-
No more–and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep–
To sleep–perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. — Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! — Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

Dormir Hasta la Muerte

febrero 11, 2009

nos cura siempre
ven a aliviar
esta vida este mal

Samuel Beckett

Contando

febrero 11, 2009

Conté las horas, los meses y los años que pasaron.

Conté las hojas que dejé sin firmar.

Conté los suspiros en fotografías.

Conté los alientos sin suspirar.

Conté los murmullos que me decían,

el tormento que pronosticaban las ausencias.

Conté las infusiones de limón que tomabas al enfermar.

Conté los años que en un futuro no se tendrán ya más.

Pero no conté el daño que se hizo al esperar.

Nunca remarqué en cuánto se puede lastimar.

Conté creo que muchas cosas.

Pero nunca conté los besos que inciertamente toqué con mis dedos.

Nunca conté que sólo eras un personaje inanimado.

Te vi dentro del libro, hasta que dejaste el papel.

Y nunca conté las hojas.

Y ahora te has ido, como yo, que a veces siento, no poder /ni querer/ regresar.