¡Tan cansada!

Es entonces, cobarde, que me acosa el deseo
de no ser y ni pienso, ni trabajo , ni creo.
Es una nulidad completa de mí misma
que me asusta y me hiere, me subyuga y me abisma.
Es entonces que yo quisiera ser así
como una cosa nimia, futil y baladí,
un chiche que se lleva guardado en el bolsillo,
una prenda cualquiera, un reloj, un anillo...
ser una cosa muerta que la llevan cargada,
y que no sabe nada, y que no piensa nada.

Todos, todos tenemos una hora cobarde,
una hora de hastío cuando muere la tarde.

(A. Storni)

La rage

Live or die,
but don't poison everything.

(A. Sexton)

Nunca

Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain.
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again;

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee--
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is - that we no more may meet.

(...)

(Lord Byron)