sábado, 9 de enero de 2010

"Funeral Blues", by W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telefone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the piano and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe 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 everyone;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep out the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

(april 1936.)

Y la escena de Four Weddings and a Funeral:

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