jueves, 25 de agosto de 2005

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

4 comentarios:

weirdo dijo...

Un altre cop aquest poema?

Sergio dijo...

mejor que a los comentarios pongamos el autor, sino será un lío...

Joan Carles dijo...

He sido yo.

Sergio dijo...

Ya lo sabía. Pero era sólo para no liarnos en adelante

- Jaimito, sube a casa!
- No, mamá, que me vuelves a tirar...