My childhood memories are of a courtyard in Seville,
and a garden where lemon trees mature;
my youth, twenty years in the land of Castile
I lived a few things you'll not want. Not a seductive
Manara, nor have been
Bradomin-ya know my awkward sartorial dressing, "
more I got the arrow assigned me Cupid,
and loved as they may have in hospital.
There is in my veins Jacobin blood drops, but my verse
spring flows from serene;
and more than a man who knows his use doctrine,
'm in the best sense of the word, good.
I love the beauty and aesthetics in the modern
cut the old garden roses from Ronsard;
but not fond of the current makeup cosmetics, nor am I a bird
those of the new gay-chirping.
despise the ballads of
hollow tenors and chorus of crickets that sing to the moon.
A distinction I stop the voices of the echoes,
and listen only, between the voices, one. Am
classical or romantic? I do not know.
I want to leave my poetry as the captain left his sword hand
virile famous for the soft
not the smith trade learned valuable.
talk to the man who is always with me, who speaks only
hope to talk to God one day, "
my soliloquy is a conversation with that
good friend who taught me the secret of philanthropy.
And after all, I owe you nothing, I must have written terms.
to my work I go, my money paid
the suit that covers me and the house where I live, I
bread and the bed where I lie.
And when the day of the last trip,
and is at the ship that never returns, I find on board
little luggage
almost naked, like the children of sea.
Antonio Machado Joan Manuel Serrat
Alberto Cortez
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