El dios de los cristianos, Dios de mi infancia, no hace el amor. Quizás es el único dios que nunca ha hecho el amor, entre todos los dioses de todas las religiones de la historia humana. Cada vez que lo pienso, siento pena por él. Y entonces le perdono que haya sido mi superpapá castigador, jefe de policía del universo, y pienso que al fin y al cabo Dios también supo ser mi amigo en aquellos viejos tiempos, cuando yo creía en Él y creía que Él creía en mí. Entonces paro la oreja, entre la caída del sol y la caída de la noche, y me parece escuchar sus melancólicas confidencias.

Eduardo Galeano.

sábado, 26 de marzo de 2011

Bluebird





There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I'm too tough for him. I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you.

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there.

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I'm too tough for him. I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? You want to screw up the works? You want to blow my book sales in Europe?

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I'm too clever. I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. Then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there. I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep.

But I don't weep. Do you?


Bukowski

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