MaternityVisto 196 veces
por Dylan Thomas
There once was a Square, such a square little Square,
And he loved a trim Triangle;
But she was a flirt and around her skirt
Vainly she made him dangle.
Oh he wanted to wed and he had no dread
Of domestic woes and wrangles;
For he thought that his fate was to procreate
Cute little Squares and Triangles.
Now it happened one day on that geometric way
There swaggered a big bold Cube,
With a haughty stare and he made that Square
Have the air of a perfect boob;
To his solid spell the Triangle fell,
And she thrilled with love’s sweet sickness,
For she took delight in his breadth and height—
But how she adored his thickness!
So that poor little Square just died of despair,
For his love he could not strangle;
While the bold Cube led to the bridal bed
That cute and acute Triangle.
The Square’s sad lot she has long forgot,
And his passionate pretensions ...
For she dotes on her kids—Oh such cute Pyramids
In a world of three dimensions.
Our eunuch dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love, the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boy’s limbs,
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Should lanterns shine, the holy face,
Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light,
Would wither up, and any boy of love
Sometimes the sky's too bright,
Or has too many clouds or birds,
And far away's too sharp a sun
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
The force that through the green fuse drives the fl …
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees …
Is my destroyer.
The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Mala …
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a ja …
Back of the bar, in a solo g...
Then was my neophyte,
Child in white blood bent on its knees
Under the bell of rocks,
Was there a time when dancers with their fiddles
In children's circuses coul stay their troubles?
There was a time they could cry over books,
When all my five and country senses see,
The fingers will forget green thumbs and mark
How, through the halfmoon’s vegetable eye,