Letter Asking For Contributions For Gift

Tamborrada

Here you have a foretaste of what may be my next book, if I am able to write, that's my new challenge. BOB DYLAN




How many roads must a man walk
before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail Before she sleeps
in the sand?
Yes, how many times must the cannon balls fly
before they are forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind,
the answer is blowing in the wind.





Yes, how many times must a man look up
before you can see the sky?
Yes, how many ears must one man have
so you can hear people cry?
Yes, and how many deaths will it take till he knows
that has already killed too many people?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind,
the answer is blowing in the wind.





Yes, how many years can a mountain exist before
washed to the sea?
Yes, how many years can some people exist before they
allowed to be free?
Yes, how many times can a man turn his head pretending
not see what you see?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind,
the answer is blowing in the wind.


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South Park Ipod Stream

BLOWING IN THE WIND AND THE SHADOWS DO MARCOS ANA

ELEGY FOR A VILLAGE

small village, so you met. Narrow streets
processions and masses, sweaty
grandparents in wheelchairs esparto,
fellow members in wars, famine and not found,
heads down to the passing of Master master
feet female mourners
talking dirty clothes in other roofs.

drunk, curse the time that has
[touched
life of marsh mud and clay
those who after the victory, had planted
in the face, the fear of his brothers.

some time the square was renovated
vestiges of the past, and opened the casino
bare feet.

Despite
healthier times in the body shines blue shrapnel wounds oozing
strife,
fetid stench of new sewers.

Someone planted a willow in the mud of despair which struck
trace metal, gutter
flowered poppies,
hidden stone marks the spot.

I'm back looking for the shade of weeping stone
clandestine
knock on the door of the old house

waiting for this pain medicine that will help me;
and scratch the ground with nails
returning to his village
memory and bury in tomb worthy.

That I've run into the night wound
cast bolts, the orchard sold
the senile neighbor sitting in the corner, more tired and wrinkled

with the lightness of the years spent
has whispered to me not return to the past.

Stroking his palm dim,
raising his shaven chin,
with whistle
broken from my lips I have whispered no memory, no life;
and I have gone head down, not knowing

When did this again People convicted.

the book the Beams and Shadows ( and www.bubok.com www.boludaca.bubok.com )