PROMENADE: Woodys

LEUKA

LOS MUNDOS DE DIOS

BRILLOS EN LA NOCHE

ROSA

ROSA

Feel Like Makin' Love to you...

Strolling in the park

Watching winter turn to spring

Walking in the dark

Seeing lovers do their thing

That's the time

I feel like making love to you

That's the time

I feel like making dreams come true, oh baby

When you talk to me

When you're alone and sweet and low

When you're touching me

And my feelings start to show

That's the time

I feel like making love to you

That's the time

I feel like making dreams come true, oh baby, oh baby

In a restaurant

Holding hands by candlelight

While I'm touching you

Wanting you with all my might

That's the time

I feel like making love to you

That's the time

I feel like making dreams come true, oh baby, oh baby

Strollin' in the park

Watching winter turn to spring

Walking in the dark

Seeing lovers do their thing

That's the time

I feel like makin' love to you

That's the time

I feel like making dreams come true

That's the time

I feel like makin' love to you

That's the time

I feel like making dreams come true

STREET ART

STREET ART

Françoise Hardy (1944 - 2024)

UN DÍA GRIS

PETITE FLEUR

A DAY (24148) IN THE LIFE

Lastima, bandoneón,

mi corazón

tu ronca maldición maleva

Tu lágrima de ron

me lleva

hasta el hondo bajo fondo

donde el barro se subleva.

Ya sé, no me digás, tenés razón

La vida es una herida absurda,

y es todo, todo, tan fugaz

que es una curda, nada más

mi confesión.

Contame tu condena,

decime tu fracaso,

¿no ves la pena

que me ha herido?

Y hablame simplemente

de aquel amor ausente

tras un retazo del olvido.

¡Ya sé que me hace daño

¡Yo sé que te lastimo!

llorando mi sermón de vino!

Pero es el viejo amor

que tiembla, bandoneón,

y busca en un licor que aturda,

la curda que al final

termine la función

corriéndole un telón al corazón.

Un poco de recuerdo y sinsabor

gotea tu rezongo lerdo.

Marea tu licor y arrea

la tropilla de la zurda

al volcar la última curda.

Cerrame el ventanal

que arrastra el sol

su lento caracol de sueño,

¿no ves que vengo de un país

que está de olvido, siempre gris,

tras el alcohol?...

PLAYA DE OMAHA

No sé por qué arranqué la primera hoja

Ni por qué embarcarse en el dolor

De un nuevo diario

Ni a dónde va a conducir

Este viaje suicida

Tan sólo sé

Que es todo, todo

Tan fugaz

Que es una curda nada más

Mi confesión

Ayer

A última hora

Anduve por la playa

Seguía el fuerte oleaje

Los cuerpos semienterradoa en la arena

Arena negruzca

De tanta sangre devorada

Toda la noche anduve caminando

Entre más de cuatro mil

Cadáveres

De muchachos

En la flor de la vida.

THE SWIMMER

He dove in and swam the pool, but when he tried to haul himself up onto the curb, he found that the strength in his arms and his shoulders had gone, and he paddled to the ladder and climbed out. Looking over his shoulder, he saw, in the lighted bathhouse, a young man. Going out onto the dark lawn, he smelled chrysanthemums or marigolds—some stubborn autumnal fragrance on the night air, strong as gas. Looking overhead, he saw that the stars had come out, but why should he seem to see Andromeda, Cepheus, and Cassiopeia? What had become of the constellations of midsummer? He began to cry.

It was probably the first time in his adult life that he had ever cried—certainly the first time in his life that he had ever felt so miserable, cold, tired, and bewildered. He could not understand the rudeness of the caterer’s barkeep, or the rudeness of a mistress who had once come to him on her knees and showered his trousers with tears. He had swum too long, he had been immersed too long, and his nose and his throat were sore from the water. What he needed then was a drink, some company, and some clean dry clothes, and while he could have cut directly across the road to his home, he went on, instead, to the Gilmartins’ pool. Here, for the first time in his life, he did not dive but went down the steps into the icy water and swam a hobbled sidestroke that he might have learned as a child. He staggered with fatigue on his way to the Clydes’, and paddled the length of their pool, stopping again and again, with his hand on the curb, to rest. He climbed up the ladder and wondered if he had the strength to get home. He had done what he wanted—he had swum the county—but he was so stupefied with exhaustion that his triumph seemed vague. Stooped, holding onto the gateposts for support, he turned up the driveway of his own house.

The place was dark. Had Lucinda stayed at the Westerhazys’ for supper? Had the girls joined her there, or gone someplace else? Hadn’t they agreed, as they usually did on Sunday, to regret all their invitations and stay at home?

He tried the garage doors, to see what cars were in, but the doors were locked and rust came off the handles. Going toward the house, he saw that the force of the thunderstorm had knocked one of the rain gutters loose. It hung down over the front door like an umbrella rib, but it could be fixed in the morning. The house was locked, and he thought that the stupid cook or the stupid maid must have locked the place up, until he remembered that it had been some time since they had employed a maid or a cook. He shouted, pounded on the door, tried to force it with his shoulder, and then, looking in at the windows, saw that the place was empty.

"The Swimmer" (John Cheever)

TREN