Martin Rico y Ortega, San Lorenzo River with the Campanile of San Giorgio dei greci, Venice, c. 1900 Why be ashamed? When one has done time,if they let one out, it’s because like everybody elsewho belongs to the streets, one has been in prison. From morning till evening we wander the avenueswhether it’s raining or …
Gabriel Ferrier, Evening, 1911 I know not how it falls on me,this summer evening, hushed and lone;yet the faint wind comes soothinglywith something of an olden tone.Forgive me if I’ve shunned so longyour gentle greeting, earth and air!But sorrow withers even the strong,and who can fight against despair? Non so come scenda su di mela …
Emily Bronte – Non so come scenda su di me / I Know Not How It Falls on Me Read More »
Alfred Stevens, Little Girl with Ducks, 1881 The girl that walks under the treesis only burdened by the weight of her plaits,while trying to whisper a song.She sings aloneand jumps along the road, as she does not knowthat never will she enjoy greater giftthan the little bit of fine gold on her shouldersand the joy …
Harry George Theaker (1873-1954), A Song of Love Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave thy song, nor ever can those trees be …
John Keats – Dolci le udite melodie / Heard melodies are sweet Read More »
Vladimir Kush, Sunrise by the Ocean, 2000 When the I AM THAT I AM made nothingand rested, which rest it certainly deserved,night now accompanied day, and manhad his friend in the absence of the woman.Let there be shadow! Human thinking broke out.And the universal egg rose, empty,pale, chill and not yet heavy with matter,full of …
Antonio Machado – Al grande zero / To the Great Circle of Nothing Read More »
Marc Chagall, War, 1964 Un bianco sole e basse, basse nubi, lungo gli orti – dietro il muro bianco – un cimitero. E sulla sabbia file di spauracchi di paglia sotto le traverse a statura d’uomo. E, penzolandomi oltre i paletti dello steccato, vedo: strade, alberi, soldati sbandati. Una vecchia contadina, cosparso di sale grosso …
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