Random Minds, Random Times: Ok...

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Ok...

... so I changed the the description for this blog. Why? Simply because the purpose sorta kinda, a little changed. Well, more like simplemente no paso como yo lo esperaba. Es decir, eso lo de discutir no puede suceder sin alguien con quien discutir. Y simplemente es más facíl no tener sierto proposito y poder hablar de lo que se me de la gana. So whatever, whenever is the new philosophy for this blog now.

So now you know: WHATEVER, WHENEVER.

Ciao!

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Because I could not stop for death (712)

by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

That time of year thou mayst behold (Sonnet 73)

by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

All the World's a Stage

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

-William Shakespear

Two Roads Diverged

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one one traveler, long I stood
And looked donwn one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fir,
And perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that mornign equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for anothet day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
Took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whoose woods these are I think I know
his house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here
to watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
to stop without a farmnhouse near.
Between the woods and frozen lake
the darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
to ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep
but I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost

Cycle

Life, a never ending cycle
We are born.
We are young.
We are Old.
We die.
Born, Yound, Old, Die.

We are born into this world
Crying and Screaming
Wrinkled and Smelly.
We drink our mother's warm milk
We suckle on her gift of Life.

We grow up.

We are children.
Even after 18 we are children.
And we know nothing.
We knew more when we were born.

We grow old.
We're back were we began.
wrinkled and smelly
Knowing now exactly what we knew then
and forgot.

And then we die.
But what can I say about death?
I've never died before.
I don't know anything about it. Nothing.

I can only hope
There is another existence.
Another birth.
Another young.
Another old.
Another death.

I hope to exist always and forever.

Always and forever to exist.

Random Minds, Random Times

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Ok...

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About Me

Me and My Cousin

My Brother

Mother Nature