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Entries Tagged as 'GALICIA'

Poetry in Translation (CCCLXXXI): Rosalia de CASTRO (1837-1885) SPAIN/GALICIA: “He Who Weeps Goes Not Alone”, “Cel ce plange nu-i singur ”

February 9th, 2016 · 1 Comment · Books, Famous People, International Media, PEOPLE, Poetry, quotations, Translations

Cel ce plânge nu-i singur mereu,
Voi, lacrimi, să curgeţi din plin!
O singură jale este mult prea puţin;
Căci ferice să fi este greu.

Când destinul hain, mă-nconvoaie din plin,
Sufletul e pierdut pe cărare;
Resemnată păşesc spre destinul divin:
Când amarul mă-ndreaptă spre zare.

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Poetry in Translation (CCCLXXX): Jordi DOCE (b. 1967), SPAIN/GALICIA: “Somewhere”, “Undeva”

February 8th, 2016 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (CCCLXXX): Jordi DOCE (b. 1967), SPAIN/GALICIA: “Somewhere”, “Undeva” · Books, International Media, PEOPLE, Poetry, quotations

You live in a city where the map of the side streets dangerously resembles that of your heart. A city where the stains and chips in the walls are windows that follow your steps, doors that no one dares to enter. Where the hung laundry sends coded messages and the glassy eyes of fish exchange glances of recognition with the copper coins of the servants.
Trăieşti într-un oraş a cărui hartă a mahalalelor arată incomod de asemănătoare cu o hartă a inimii. Un oraş unde petele şi cioburile din pereţi şi ferestre îţi urmăresc paşii acolo unde nimeni nu vrea să intre. Unde rufele atârnate pe frânghie trimet mesaje codificate, unde ochii sticloşi ai peştilor schimbă priviri asemănătoare bacşişului mărunt al servitorilor.

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Poetry in Translation (CCVII): Manuel Álvarez Torneiro, (b. 1932, La Coruña), GALICIA, SPAIN, “On The Matter of Adagio, In Tribute to Tomaso Albinoni”, “Adagio, Tribut lui Tomaso Albinoni”

August 16th, 2013 · Comments Off on Poetry in Translation (CCVII): Manuel Álvarez Torneiro, (b. 1932, La Coruña), GALICIA, SPAIN, “On The Matter of Adagio, In Tribute to Tomaso Albinoni”, “Adagio, Tribut lui Tomaso Albinoni” · International Media, PEOPLE, Poetry, quotations, Translations

The hour arborescent in the shelter of evening.
That voluptuous taffeta of sense.
And life,
which binds severe moments.
A lit blade of grass touches the tremulous flesh,
elaborates the happy flowering of what’s lost.
Nothing is shipwrecked definitively.
The viola turns into sheer silk.
Great scars receive their oils.

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