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#spanish poet
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«No me siento perdida. Es sólo que no sé dónde termina el mar que llevo dentro y a veces me ahogo».Elvira Sastre
"I don't feel lost. It's just that I don't know where the sea inside me ends, and sometimes I drown." - Elvira Sastre
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innervoiceartblog · 1 year
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Is my soul asleep?
Have those beehives that work
in the night stopped? And the water-
wheel of thought, is it
going around now, cups
empty, carrying only shadows?
No, my soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its eyes wide open
far-off things, listens
at the shores of the great silence.
— By Antonio Cipriano José María y Francisco de Santa Ana Machado y Ruiz, also known as Antonio Machado (1875-1935), Spanish poet. © 1983 Robert Bly (trans) courtesy of the blog “Waking Up”
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hannamarni · 2 years
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I have put love in its crib, and now, with the gesture of a tired woman, I straighten up, draw the curtains, and look for a place where I too can sleep.
Dulce María Loynaz, Absolute solitude
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b-ajaysharma · 3 months
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The Witness- "द्रष्टा"
collaboration with  Poet Pilar Paz Pasamar Death is always a question and matter of absence of the body in space-time, Pillar Paz Pasamar wrote in her book ‘La dama de Cadiz‘ ” The Load says that amongst human beings, death is only a passing away from one place to another ” (Pillar 1980). vimeo.com/user19281998/ Nine Channel Video Installation In Solo Show 2015 Paradox (विरोधाभास) at Instituto…
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Love: The heartthorb
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Not only is she their neightbor, she is one of guy diamond’s moms and also a lesbian
If you can’t read the poem:
“Roses are red
Skies are bleu blue
I don’t know how to rhyme
I choked on an skittle yesterday
I like you”
He was grounded for 3 months
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trensu · 3 months
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Have an itty bitty tiny piece of stasis in darkness, just so you all have an idea of where the story is going after the godly reveal. and also have proof that i am, in fact, still toiling away at this (as well as hawkins halfway house.)
A week and a half later, Steve entered a town he’d never seen before. He wore simple traveling clothes and carried no weapons aside from a couple of carefully hidden knives. He’d left his armor and shield behind. His satchel held only the essentials one needed for travel and a single stone as large as his fist. The stone was wrapped in layers of cloth to keep it safe during the journey. 
I need you to find someone. 
He felt very bare but he hadn’t been given much of a choice. Speed was of the essence for his quest, and little no-name towns tended to be wary of strangers in plain clothes, even more so around strangers decked out for battle. Steve wasn’t sure this place could be called a town. It was so small it hadn’t been on any official map. It didn’t even have an inn. Hopefully, Steve wouldn’t be needing an inn once he found who he was looking for.
He’s too far from me to reach.
He asked around, laying on the charm generously. He explained he had been a friend of a friend and had been trusted to deliver something. Eventually, he was told where to go. The house he found far beyond the village’s boundary was small. It looked like it had once been well cared for but it was old and had fallen to disrepair. Steve took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A sallow old man opened the door. He was bald but had some scruff on his face still. His shoulders, stooped from age, trembled. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked so tired.
He’s my very last worshiper in all the world.
“Wayne Munson?” Steve asked.
“Who wants to know?” The man’s voice was phlegmy and rough. He coughed into the crook of his elbow almost before he could finish speaking. 
“I’m Steve. Ser Steve Harrington, pledged to the Lord of Night.”
Wayne’s eyes widened. His grip on the open door weakened and slipped. Steve caught the door before it could hit Wayne.
��He sent me to you,” Steve explained. “May I come in?”
yep, that's it for now. i told you it was small. i'm not even gonna bother with a read-more here.
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feelingthedisaster · 1 month
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my exact thoughts after finishing dead poet society (after finishinh crying ofc)
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yourdailyqueer · 10 months
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Federico García Lorca (deceased)
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Gay
DOB: 5 June 1898  
RIP: 19 August 1936
Ethnicity: White - Spanish
Occupation: Poet, playwright, theatre director, musician
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Omg!?!? A happy edit!?!? (Don’t get used to it)
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taciturnpoet · 10 months
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awww, pobrecita chancleta
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nocturnalnewsiestrash · 5 months
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Why must I have to go to classes and write papers and prepare for presentations??? all I want to do is curl up in bed and read Anderperry comfort fics but NOOOO that's too much to ask for
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"Eu tamén navegar"
Xohana Torres
"Yo también [quiero, deseo, puedo, voy a...] navegar"
"I too [love, want, can, go to,...] sail"
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"You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?"
Read it here in Spanish or English | Reblog for a larger sample size!
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So that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.
Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.
And I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
It climbs the same way on damp walls.
You are to blame for this cruel sport.
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
You fill everything, you fill everything.
Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are.
Now I want them to say what I want to say to you
to make you hear as I want you to hear me.
The wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual.
Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over.
You listen to other voices in my painful voice.
Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications.
Love me, companion. Don't forsake me. Follow me.
Follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish.
But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything.
I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes.
So That You Will Hear Me by Pablo Neruda
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carusgf · 9 months
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Spanish speakers often say "mi media naranja" (literally: "my half-orange") to mean "my husband," "my wife," etc.
A common explanation: since no two oranges are identical, each half-orange only has one possible match. In this view, media naranja isn't just one's mate, but the perfect match, something like "soul mate."
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sadness26sworld · 1 month
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• Federico Garcia Lorca •
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