La actual posible futura ex-ministra (PPSOE) Gonzalez-Sinde:
El actual posible futuro ministro de cultura (PPSOE) Lasalle:
Lo que pensamos:
by Banksy
Mismos perros, distintos collares.
No les votes.
truth
Ode on a Grecian Urn
John Keats 1795–1821
| HOU still unravish’d bride of quietness, | |
| Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, | |
| Sylvan historian, who canst thus express | |
| A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: | |
| What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape | 5 |
| Of deities or mortals, or of both, | |
| In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? | |
| What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? | |
| What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? | |
| What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? | 10 |
| Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard | |
| Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; | |
| Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, | |
| Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: | |
| Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave | 15 |
| Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; | |
| Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, | |
| Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; | |
| She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, | |
| For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! | 20 |
| Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed | |
| Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; | |
| And, happy melodist, unwearièd, | |
| For ever piping songs for ever new; | |
| More happy love! more happy, happy love! | 25 |
| For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d, | |
| For ever panting, and for ever young; | |
| All breathing human passion far above, | |
| That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, | |
| A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. | 30 |
| Who are these coming to the sacrifice? | |
| To what green altar, O mysterious priest, | |
| Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, | |
| And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? | |
| What little town by river or sea-shore, | 35 |
| Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, | |
| Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? | |
| And, little town, thy streets for evermore | |
| Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell | |
| Why thou art desolate, can e’er return. | 40 |
| O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede | |
| Of marble men and maidens overwrought, | |
| With forest branches and the trodden weed; | |
| Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought | |
| As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! | 45 |
| When old age shall this generation waste, | |
| Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe | |
| Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, | |
| ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all | |
| Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ | 50 |
The Bubble
We take things for granted, but we live in a bubble, protected, far away from reality. Truth to be told, the real world is a hazardous, dangerous, mercyless place. The only hope for humans is to actually think on a global scale, without borders, nor frontiers: specially those built in our minds.
If there is something we have to think of is of our damaged brotherhood, of the pain we feel but don’t see. It goes more than to the bone. Our pain should be the one of our brothers and sisters, and our happiness too.
It’s not hard to see, if we want to seek the truth, what do unite us. We feel the same pains and joys… And when thinking by ourselves, without prejudices, we can understand almost anybody else.
We live in the delusion of being in a perfectly safe place, but it’s just a mere stage.
