The Raven

Hoy hace 171 años se publicó The Raven, de Edgar Allan Poe.  Aquí lo dejo, sólo porque me encanta.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Me niego a ser rehén del miedo

  

 

El miedo es un ladrón. Peor, es un ladrón cobarde que te necesita para robarte. No puede quitarte nada que no le des y, sin embargo, hay tantos y tantos más que le entregan todo. 

Dice la leyenda que cuando el Cid murió a media guerra contra los moros, los españoles se iban a quedar colgados de la brocha hasta que a uno se le ocurrió amarrarlo al caballo y que saliera con toda la bola a darles cuello a los moros. Los moros, al verlo salir en su caballo al frente del ejército español, se echaron a correr y perdieron la batalla, la guerra, España y todo el chingado imperio otómano. Así de cabron es el miedo. 

Por eso digo que no tenemos oportunidad de ganar la guerra contra los zombies, porque nada espanta tanto como un muerto con espada en un caballo, pero disgrego.  

 

And I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
 
El caso es que el 11 de enero, un estupido escuincle de 15 años que dice que chambea con los muchachos de ISIS, acuchilló a un maestro que traía una kippa puesta y venía cargando una Torah. Para los que no lo saben, la kippa es la pequeña gorra circular con la que los hombres judíos nos cubrimos la cabeza, los laícos como yo sólo en el templo, los más ortodoxos todo el tiempo. 

Aunque no pasó a mayores, para Zvi Amar ésta fue la paja que quebró al burro y salió a darlas pidiendo que los miembros de su congregación NO anden en la calle con kippa para evitar que fueran identificados como judíos. 

Al mundo tendría que valerle nada y menos lo que pida don Zvi si no fuera por el pequeño prietito en el arróz de que monsieur Ammar es el líder de la comunidad judía de Marsella, y es ahí donde la puerca tuerce el rabo.  

No es que el horno esté para bollos, la verdad. La cosa en Francia está seria y, como ya dije antes, la culpa alcanza para todos, pero de eso a tirar la toalla, óigame no. 

IMG_0484
Jean Jullien

La petición de Ammar es un acto de COBARDÍA. Así, con todas sus letras y en mayúsculas. 

Por ahí se empieza y antes de que uno se de cuenta ya está subido en el tren camino a los campos de exterminio y no, NUNCA JAMÁS.

20130407-124618.jpg

Yo soy judío y soy ese judío que no agacha la cabeza, que no pone la otra mejilla. Soy ese que ya no sale corriendo de su casa, que ya no sube pasivo a los trenes de la muerte. Soy ese que se sabe fuerte. Soy ese que no se dobla ni se rompe. Soy ese que no se esconde. 

Aquí en México no nos faltan motivos para temer, aunque las razones son otras. 

El crimen organizado se ha convertido ya en un Estado paralelo. Los capos controlan partes enteras del territorio y el gobierno parece ir perdiendo la guerra. Las ejecuciones, los secuestros, el derecho de piso. 

Yo me rehuso a ser rehén del miedo. 

No es que no les tema, es que mi miedo no les alcanza para dominarme. 

Dice Ned Stark a su hija Arya en Game Of Thrones que solo cuando se tiene miedo se puede ser valiente. Es verdad.  Solo cuando viene el miedo a tocar la puerta y exigirte le entregues tu dignidad es que puedes negársela. 

Y hay que negársela. Hay que negarse a no salir a la calle, a no llevar a los hijos al parque, a esconder lo que es uno. 

Hay que negarse a estar tan asustado que se se renuncie a la libertad para sentirse seguros. 

 

 Hay que negarse porque de no hacerlo le das al narco y al terrorista aquello que sin ti no pueden robarte. 

Cuando el miedo al terrorista es tál que no usas una kippa, o el miedo al delincuente es tanto que no sales a pasear con tu familia,  cediste la plaza, te rendidiste y no, yo me niego a rendirme. 

img_0544
Te invito a que tu tampoco  lo hagas porque si lo haces, perderás la batalla, la guerra, España, el mundo, pero, sobre todo, te perderás a ti mismo.