As a courtesy for those that love reading poetry in the spanish language.
200 years ago, in 1807, were men that only had a horse and a backpack full of sadness.
As their story goes...
Están llorando los corazones
por un amor que se ha perdido,
y que no los veremos más
porque talvez está escondido.
Amores dejan una huella larga
en la vida, sobre su triste camino,
rastros de pasos que murieron
y en polvo fueron convertidos.
Uno pasa y oye desde los cañaverales
risas de burla para el corazón herido,
como si un rincón de la pampa dijera,
de los payasos la risa, no los gemidos.
La tarde degüella un sol postrado,
sangrando un atardecer con rojo vivo,
para que las sombras de la noche no sean
tan negras con el color de los olvidos.
La guitarra se ha quedado muda,
si no hay amor...no hay sonidos,
sus cuerdas no guardan bagüalas tristes,
solo alegrías de un fuego que está encendido.
Solitario jinete que traga las leguas,
tratando de alejarse del amor furtivo,
viajando por una tierra que pertenece
desde tiempos olvidados, al indio.
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|Reviewed by William Bonilla
|Well Penned My friend
Asi se ase
An out standing Write
|Reviewed by Karen Palumbo
|Well, reading H. Cruz I take it as the English translation. If so, then a most beautiful piece of a time lost to the ages. The music from the guitar remains silent until love flows again..... Well, I tried....
|Reviewed by Morning Star
|Están llorando los corazones
Este poema de amor perdido
Esta muy triste y muchas lágrimas
Pero son muy bonitos pensamientos
De un gran poeta
Amor y Paz para siempre
Tu Amiga.....Morning Star
|Reviewed by H Cruz
|For ace to courtesy those that love reading poetry in the spanish language. 200 years ago, in 1807, were men that only had to horse and to backpack full of sadness. Ace to their story goes..... The hearts by a love are crying that is had lost, and that we will not see more them because talvez is hidden. Loves leave a long track in the life, on their sad way, signs of steps that died and dust they were turned. One passes and hears from the cane plantations laughter of ridicule for the hurt heart, as if a corner of Pampas said, of the clowns the laughter, not moaned them. Afternoon degüella a postrado sun, bleeding a red dusk with alive, so that the shades at night are not so black with the color of the forgetfulnesses. The guitar has been speechless, if there is no love... are no sounds, its sad cords do not keep bagüalas, single joys of a fire that is ignited. Solitary rider who swallows leguas, trying to move away of the furtive love, traveling by a earth that belongs from forgotten times, to the Indian|
|Reviewed by - - - - - TRASK
|Reviewed by Tinka Boukes
|What ever you said here.....I agree well penned (although I have no clue WHAT you said)...lol!!
|Reviewed by richard cederberg
|My understanding of Spanish is woeful. Blessings Georg.
|Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner
Beautifully penned; romantic capture of cowboys on the plains. Well done!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
|Reviewed by La Belle Rouge Poetess Of The Heart
|So sad to have loved and lost, beautiful work Georg.|
|Reviewed by Mr. Ed
|My Spanish is quite rusty, Georg, but I would bet the lonely gaucho, like the lonely American cowboy, rode his horse, strummed his guitar, and dreamt of love.|
|Reviewed by Southern Comfort
|Alas, Sweet Georgie, I am only fluent in Mississippi REDNECK, but I adore the sound of the Spanish Language, it is so passionate and musical. BIG HUGS! SC|