We present this work in honor of the 565th anniversary of the poet’s death.
From Calatrava as I took my way At holy Mary’s shrine to kneel and pray, And sleep upon my eyelids heavy lay, There where the ground was very rough and wild, I lost my path and met a peasant child: From Finojosa, with the herds around her, There in the fields I found her.
Upon a meadow green with tender grass, With other rustic cowherds, lad and lass, So sweet a thing to see I watched her pass: My eyes could scarce believe her what they found her, There with the herds around her.
I do not think that roses in the Spring Are half so lovely in their fashioning: My heart must needs avow this secret thing, That had I known her first as then I found her, From Finojosa, with the herds around her, I had not strayed so far her face to see That it might rob me of my liberty.
I questioned her, to know what she might say: “Has she of Finojosa passed this way?” She smiled and answered me: “In vain you sue, Full well my heart discerns the hope in you: But she of whom you speak, and have not found her. Her heart is free, no thought of love has bound her, Here with the herds around her.”
As I upon my pallet lie, The greatest grief I know Is thinking when I said “Good-bye” To the breast I’m loving so.
In spite of all the woes I feel Upon that parting thought, At times my memories reveal The mighty joys you brought. So let the world a-whispering go To tell why here I lie; Because they know I’ve said “Good-bye” To the breast I’m loving so.
I languish but I let none hear How deep my sorrows are, Although my griefs are quite as near As your sweet balm is far. And if it be the end they show And death is coming nigh, While living, let me say “Good-bye” To the breast I’m loving so.
We present this work in honor of the 530th anniversary of the poet’s death.
The price of a man consists not in silver and gold; The value of a man is his power and virtue. Many a slave has by acquiring virtue Attained much greater power than a gentleman And many a gentleman has for want of virtue, Become inferior to his own slave.
O dark one, with beautiful eyes, have mercy on me, my birth is low, my reputation black as night.
O dark one, with beautiful eyes, please, have mercy on me. The Vedas proclaim you champion of the low savior of the downtrodden like me. Kanhopatra surrenders again and again, O dark one, have mercy on me.
What is seen is not the Truth
What is cannot be said
Trust comes not without seeing
Nor understanding without words
The wise comprehends with knowledge
To the ignorant it is but a wonder
Some worship the formless God
Some worship His various forms
In what way He is beyond these attributes
Only the Knower knows
That music cannot be written
How can then be the notes
Says Kabir, awareness alone will overcome illusion
We present this work in honor of the Day of the Dead.
He makes the Eagles and Ocelots dance with him!
Come to see the Huexotzinca:
On the dais of the Eagle he shouts out,
Loudly cries the Mexica.
The battlefield is the place: where one toasts the divine liquor in war,
where are stained red the divine eagles,
where the tigers howl,
where all kinds of precious stones rain from ornaments,
where wave headdresses rich with fine plumes,
where princes are smashed to bits.
There is nothing like death in war,
nothing like the flowery death
so precious to Him who gives life:
far off I see it: my heart yearns for it!
And they called it Teotihulcan
because it was the place
where the lords were buried.
Thus they said:
‘When we die,
truly we die not,
because we will live, we will rise,
we will continue living, we will awaken
This will make us happy.’
Thus the dead one was directed,
when he died:
‘Awaken, already the sky is rosy,
already dawn has come,
already sing the flame-coloured guans,
the fire-coloured swallows,
already the butterflies fly.’
Thus the old ones said
that who has died has become a god,
they said: ‘He has been made a god there,
meaning ‘He has died.’
Even jade is shattered,
Even gold is crushed,
Even quetzal plume are torn . . .
One does not live forever on this earth:
We endure only for an instant!
Will flowers be carried to the Kingdom of Death:
Is it true that we are going, we are going?
Where are we going, ay, where are we going?
Will we be dead there or will we live yet?
Does one exist again?
Perhaps we will live a second time?
Thy heart knows:
Just once do we live!.
Like a quetzal plume, a fragrant flower,
like heron plumes, it weaves itself into finery.
Our song is a bird calling out like a jingle:
how beautiful you make it sound!
Here, among flowers that enclose us,
among flowery boughs you are singing.
the earth is a grave and nothing escapes it, nothing is so perfect
that it does not descend to its tomb. Rivers, rivulets, fountains and
waters flow, but never return to their joyful beginnings; anxiously
they hasten on the vast realms of the rain god. As they widen their
banks, they also fashion the sad urn of their burial.
Filled are the bowels of the earth with pestilential dust once flesh and bone,
once animate bodies of man who sat upon thrones, decided cases, presided in
council, commanded armies, conquered provinces, possessed treasure, destroyed
temples, exulted in their pride, majesty, fortune, praise and power. Vanished
are these glories, just as the fearful smoke vanishes that belches forth from
the infernal fires of Popocatepetl. Nothing recalls them but the written page.