domingo, 16 de mayo de 2010

Wystan Hugh Auden

Stop all the clocks. Cut off the telephone. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bonel. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum. Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let the aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead, scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. Put crepe bows 'round the white necks of the public doves. Let traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East, and West. My working week and my Sunday rest. My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song. I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.

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