I’ve had these words floating through my mind for days both sung by Lhasa de Sela and by Mercedes Sosa. Indeed it’s the lyrics to the song in my previous post, written by Fito Paéz. But the ladies perform it the best.

¿Quién dijo que todo está perdido?
yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón,
tanta sangre que se llevó el río,
yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón.

No será tan fácil, ya sé qué pasa,
no será tan simple como pensaba,
como abrir el pecho y sacar el alma,
una cuchillada del amor.

Luna de los pobres siempre abierta,
yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón,
como un documento inalterable
yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón.

Y uniré las puntas de un mismo lazo,
y me iré tranquilo, me iré despacio,
y te daré todo, y me darás algo,
algo que me alivie un poco más.

Cuando no haya nadie cerca o lejos,
yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón.
cuando los satélites no alcancen,
yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón.

Y hablo de países y de esperanzas,
hablo por la vida, hablo por la nada,
hablo de cambiar ésta, nuestra casa,
de cambiarla por cambiar, nomás.

¿Quién dijo que todo está perdido?
yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón.

I haven’t written here for ages, but I assure you the blog isn’t left behind, it’s just been resting. I think it’s been oversleeping, but that’s how it goes. in any case, I came across a poem that merits being posted – may it signal a return to regular writing. Here’s the poem:

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
no one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
no other end of the world will there be.

(Czeslaw Milosz)

Larry Towell

.

This is a train of thought
a long line of thinking that goes back to the way free people thought before jails were invented.
No matter how tired they were, they never stopped thinking the same thought:
What if someone took them away? Took the thoughts away?

No matter how tired I get, I’m never too tired to forget the dead friends I still have
You see that village on the hill that isn’t there? It used to be mine.
You see that house, buried like a hibernating frog in the sand?
That was my house.
I can prove it. I still have the key.

I wish I was still alive so I could confirm once and for all that I existed,
instead of being this memory that no one can prove, nor disprove.

Perhaps it is enough then to belong to the memory.
Perhaps you only see the ground above the frog,
the ground is enough,
the ground is a memory.

This is a train of thought,
a long line of thinking that goes back to the time before there were jails.
To a time we were so small we did not even exist.

I wish I was still alive,
instead of being where I am.
Imagine that -
being where i’m not.

.

Words by Larry Towell, from his ‘Train of Thought‘ – thanks to Magnum in Motion you can see this story there; Larry Towell’s words, sound recordings and photographs documenting the aftermath of an assault on a Jenin refugee camp in 2002 by the Israeli Defense Forces. Larry Towell is a remarkable photographer with an rare instinct, and sensibility. His talent for storytelling is a truly inspirational for me, whether documenting quiet domestic, rural life, or critical social issues abroad. For his photos and essays, here is his portfolio at Magnum – subtle, poetic work all way through. (Any errors in the text above are mine). Alright,

back to work..

Enclosure came and trampled on the grave
Of labours rights, and left the poor a slave

Fence now meets fence, in owners little bounds
Of field and meadow large, as garden grounds
In little parcels little minds to please
With men and flocks imprisoned, ill at ease

Each little tyrant, with his little sign
Shows where man claims earth grows no more divine
On paths to freedom, and to childhood dear
A board sticks up to notice: ‘no road here’

- John Clare