damm freak show

Es el más pequeño de todos, el último.
Pero no le digáis nada; dejadle que juegue.
Es más chico que los demás, y es un niño callado.
Al balón apenas si puede darle con su bota pequeña.
Juega un rato y luego pronto le olvidan.
Todos pasan gritando, sofocados, enormes,
y casi nunca le ven. Él golpea una vez,
y después de mucho rato otra vez,
y los otros se afanan, brincan, lucen, vocean.
La masa inmensa de los muchachos, agolpada, rojiza.
Y pálidamente el niño chico los mira
y mete diminuto su pie pequeño,
y al balón no lo toca.
Y se retira. Y los ve. Son jadeantes,
son desprendidos quizá de arriba, de una montaña,
son quizá un montón de roquedos que llegó ruidosísimo
de allá, de la cumbre.

Y desde el quieto valle, desde el margen del río,
el niño chico no los contempla.
Ve la montaña lejana. Los picachos, el cántico de los
vientos.
Y cierra los ojos, y oye
el enorme resonar de sus propios pasos gigantes por las
rocas bravías.

Sí, por detrás de las gentes
te busco.
No en tu nombre si lo dicen,
no en tu imagen, si la pintan.
Detrás, detrás, más allá.
Por detrás de ti te busco.
No en tu espejo, no en tu letra,
ni en tu alma.Detrás, más allá.

También detrás, más atrás
de mí te busco. No eres
lo que yo siento de ti.

No eres
lo que me está palpitando
con sangre mía en las venas,
sin ser yo.
Detrás, más allá te busco.

Por encontrarme, dejar
de vivir en ti, y en mí,
y en los otros.
Vivir ya detrás de todo,
al otro lado de todo
-por encontrarme-
como si fuese morir.

Río Duero, río Duero

nadie a acompañarte baja,

nadie se detiene a oír

tu eterna estrofa de agua.

Indiferente o cobarde,

la ciudad vuelve la espalda.

No quiere ver en tu espejo

su muralla desdentada.

Tú, viejo Duero, sonríes

entre tus barbas de plata,

moliendo con tus romances

las cosechas mal logradas.

Y entre los santos de piedra

y los álamos de magia
pasas llevando en tus ondas

palabras de amor, palabras.

Río Duero, río Duero,

nadie a estar contigo baja,

ya nadie quiere atender

tu eterna estrofa olvidada.

Sino los enamorados

que preguntan por sus almas

y siembran en tus espumas

palabras de amor, palabras

It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,--

Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!--

It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood;

Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,

And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.

Put out the light, and then put out the light:

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore,

Should I repent me: but once put out thy light,

Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,

I know not where is that Promethean heat

That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again.

It must needs wither: I'll smell it on the tree.

Ah balmy breath, that dost almost persuade

Justice to break her sword! One more, one more.

Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,

And love thee after. One more, and this the last:

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,

But they are cruel tears: this sorrow's heavenly;

It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.

If you bethink yourself of any crime

Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace,

Solicit for it straight.

Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by:

I would not kill thy unprepared spirit;

No; heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul.

And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then

When your eyes roll so: why I should fear I know not,

Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear.

Think on thy sins.

They are loves I bear to you

Ay, and for that thou diest.

That death's unnatural that kills for loving.

Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?

Some bloody passion shakes your very frame:

These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,

They do not point on me.

Sweet soul, take heed,

Take heed of perjury; thou art on thy deathbed

What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead?

I that am cruel am yet merciful;

I would not have thee linger in thy pain: So, so.

O, the more angel he, And who the blacker devil

busca mas alla de lo evidente

Happy DDay
HAPPY DEATHDAY???
WHY IS IT SO DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND

For all those perverts in the world..... los begginers no se usan con los niños........ y menos si estan atached to you

Wasting photographs on landscapes... what can i say simplemente me gustan y no me gusta arruinalos con mi foto

Winds of Change

Gods vs Mortals Vs Demons

sorry guys for all those who were not included I did not have photographs from you. Perdón a todos aquellos que no fueron incluidos no tenia sus fotos pero ya veran jejjejej cuando las tenga. OOPS Zeuz se borró tu foto pero escribire un nuevo blog contigo de tema central.

Beware........

dreams are dangerous............

DREAM DREAM DREAM.......

Galadriel vs niña elfa

"We hates it!!! Hatesss it!....forever!!!!"




Just imagine what does it feels to have a thousand of these in your head

para aquellos que jueguen magic ça c'est moi



y esta es la historia:

Kamahl's interference, and the Mirari's power,fuses Akroma and Phage into an awesomely powerful being encompassing all five colors. Karona, as this fledgling god calls herself, brings most of Otaria to its knees. Every race sees her as one of its own gods: to the soldiers and clerics, she appears to be the Ancestor; to the elves, she is the ultimate avatar of nature; and so on. Her Decrees to these races are short and sweet: wage war for her. And they do, with gusto. The entire continent is engulfed in one huge civil war, and due to his role in her creation, Kamahl stands alone as one of the only beings unaffected by Karona's commands. His only hope is to reach out to Ixidor, still imprisoned from the events of the Onslaught set, and together the two of them must try to stop Karona before her power grows to unstoppable proportions. Of course, in a battle this big, with the stakes so high, not everyone is going to get out of this alive.

Don't ever forget

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."

"Chaos is found in greatest abundance wherever order is being sought. It always defeats order, because it is better organized."

False face must hide what the false heart doth know

False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand,
Hog in sloth; fox in stealth; wolf in greediness,
Dog in madness, lion in prey.

"Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. "