Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came (original)

My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lieOn mine, and mouth scarce able to affordSuppression of the glee that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there,And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laughWould break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescinglyI did turn as he pointed: neither prideNor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to copeWith that obstreperous joy success would bring,I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,And hears one bid the other go, draw breathFreelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith, "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")

While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away,With care about the banners, scarves and staves:And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among "The Band" - to wit,The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressedTheir steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now—should I be fit?

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the dayHad been a dreary one at best, and dimWas settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last viewO'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on; nought else remained to do.

So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!But cockle, spurge, according to their lawMight propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rentsIn the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulkAll hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him foldAn arm in mine to fix me to the placeThat way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman handsPin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.Will the night send a howlet or a bat?I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;This, as it frothed by, might have been a bathFor the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fitOf mute despair, a suicidal throng:The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seekFor hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!—It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,Whose savage trample thus could pad the dankSoil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage—

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,None out of it. Mad brewage set to workTheir brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

And more than that - a furlong on - why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reelMen's bodies out like silk? with all the airOf Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,Makes a thing and then mars it, till his moodChanges and off he goes!) within a rood— Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss or substances like boils;Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in himLike a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

And just as far as ever from the end! Nought in the distance but the evening, nought To point my footstep further! At the thought,A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap—perchance the guide I sought.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains - with such name to graceMere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case.

Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when— In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,Progress this way. When, in the very nickOf giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!

Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight!

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart Built of brown stone, without a counterpartIn the whole world. The tempest's mocking elfPoints to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

Not see? because of night perhaps? - why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:The hills, like giants at a hunting, layChin upon hand, to see the game at bay,— "Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers,—How such a one was strong, and such was bold,And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flameI saw them and I knew them all. And yetDauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came".

Robert Browning (1812-1889)

Oogie Boogie dise

Si viste la pelicula de "El extraño mundo de Jack" o lo que es lo mismo "The Nightmare Before Christmas " te encantaran estos lindos juguetitos .



Correo sobre la INFLUENZA

Si no eres Mexicano, hay algunas partes que no entendreas pero, por lo demás, disfrutalo...
-¿Qué le dijo el DF a la Influenza?
-"¡¡Uy, que miedo... Mira cómo estoy temblando!!"
Estaban un oso, un león y un puerquito platicando...
El oso comenta: -Yo sólo necesito rugir para hacer temblar a todo el bosque
El león, que no se queria quedar atrás, responde:-Pues yo también sólo necesito rugir y toda la selva tiembla y se esconden en sus guaridas-
Y el puerquito muy sonriente los ve y les dice:-jajaja par de novatos, aprendan a mí, que basta con que tosa y todo el mundo se caga de miedo.
La influenza nos ha hecho olvidar el virus del "debola" (debola luz, debola tarjeta de crédito, debola agua!!!)
Porque la influenza empezó en el DF?? Porque solo le da a los cerdos. (Como chilanga, no estoy de acuerdo, pero ya qué)
¿Por qué no es bueno juntarse con la gripe?
Pues porque es mala influenza...
Una mañana, un niño veracruzano, de Perote, se levantó y pensó, después de un hermoso sueño: ¡¡Un día voy a Influenzar al mundo!!

Si el gobierno no te quita la influenza, ¡QUE TE LA PAGUE!
El saludo de moda:
Oye… ¿y como amaneciste hoink?
Lo malo del cubrebocas es el mal aliento…
¡hay que fumárselo uno solito!
Ahora los mexicanos
¡tenemos influenza sobre todo el mundo!
Los besos mexicanos
¡¡te llevan al paraíso!!
Primer acto: sale un camión con indocumentados a USA
Segundo acto: sale un avión con indocumentados a Europa
Tercer acto: sale un barco con indocumentados a Asia
¿Cómo se llamó la obra?
¿Cómo sabes que te has contagiado de la gripe porcina?
Porque se te pone la "cola" enroscada
Riamonos de nuestras desgracias diria el Master Alex Lora XD


Papercraft es un método de construcción de figuras tridimensionales de papel, similar al origami. Sin embargo, difiere del origami en que sus patrones pueden consistir en muchas piezas de papel cortadas con tijeras y unidas con pegamento, lo cual contradice la filosofía del origami que sólo contempla doblar papel y nunca recortarlo o pegarlo.

Bueno, una ves que ya sabemos lo que es esto...aqui posteo mi modelo más reciente...



Angel atrapado

Debes admitirlo :
Fue por un descuido tuyo
que te atrapara
y te colgara de cabeza
en el centro de mi cuarto.
Ya no te contorsionas;
¿ Ya se te acabaron las fuerzas ?,
debes de estar muy triste,
pero esta noche te toco perder.
Mi querido ángel,
te ves mareado.
Ahora es infernal y roja tu tez,
- te ves cansado.
No te preocupes ,
no te dolerá mucho :
Voy arrancar y morder tu piel.
Pero sabes :
Lo primero que haré
será romper tus alas
y comer de tus blancas plumas
para que no te puedas marchar.
En grandes trozos
tirare por la ventana
lo que tenga mal sabor
pero conservare la carne de tus alas.
Dime querido ángel :
¿ Se me ven bien ?,
¡Ah!, lo que pensaría mi mama...
Por fin su mal hijo se hizo ángel ,
deberían de estar aquí los muchachos.
Oye por cierto :
- ¿ crees que echen raíz en mi ?
Artuto Accio (Poesias Negras)