Lola Luftnagle Clothes

words not his

"Death devagar"

slowly quem não Morre exchange of ideas, no exchange of speech, avoids its own contradictions.
Dies slowly he who becomes the slave of habit, repeating every day the same path and the same grocery shopping. Who would not change a brand, do not risk to wear a new color, you can not talk to strangers.
Dies slowly he who makes televisãoo your guru and your partner everyday. Many can not buy a book or a movie ticket, but many can, and yet alienate himself before an image tube that carries information and entertainment, but it should not, even with only 14 inches, taking up so much space in a lifetime.
Dies slowly he who avoids a passion, who prefers black on white and the record straight in an untamed whirlwind of emotions, just those that recover shining eyes, smiles and sobs, hearts from the stumbling and feelings.
Dies slowly he who does not overthrow the table when is unhappy at work, who does not risk the certain for the uncertain after a dream, who is not allowed, since the life, to flee from sensate advises.
Dies slowly he who does not travel, not read, does not listen to music, who does not see the joke himself.
Dies slowly he who destroys her self-esteem. It may be depression, which is serious illness and requires professional help. Then dies every day who do not let themselves be helped.
Dies slowly he who does not work and who do not study, and in most cases this is not opçãoe, yes, destination: a government so silent you can slowly kill a good portion of the population.
Dies slowly he who passes his days complaining of bad luck or the incessant rain, giving up one project before starting it, not asking about a subject that knows and does not respond when asked what he knows . Many people die slowly, and this is the most ungrateful and treacherous death, because when it gets closer to reality, there are already too untrained to go through the little time remaining. That tomorrow, so take too long to be our day. Already we can not avoid a sudden end, which at least avoid death in small payments, always remembering that being alive requires an effort far greater than simply breathing.

Martha Medeiros

Io Consiglio di leggere l'originale, si capisce Abbastanza. Pare anche che sia più inglese spagnolo. Pero
(con so Sofferenza) metta la versione Italian:

"Slowly muore"

He or she who becomes a slave of habit, repeating every day the same itineraries, who does not change the brand, who does not risk and change the color of the clothes, does not talk to those who do not know.
He or she who shuns passion, who prefers black on white and dot the "i" rather than a set of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer, that turn a yawn into a smile, that make the heart beat in front of mistakes and feelings.
He or she who does not overthrow the table when is unhappy at work, who does not risk certainty for uncertainty, to chase a dream, who would not allow, at least once in their lives to run away from sensible advice.
Slowly dies who does not travel, does not read, does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself. Dies slowly he who destroys
self-love, who does not accept help, who spends his days complaining of his bad luck or the incessant rain.
Dies slowly he who abandons a project before starting it, who does not ask questions on subjects he does not know, who does not answer when asked about something he knows.
Let's avoid death in small doses, reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of
breathe.
Only a burning patience will lead to attainment of a splendid happiness.

My love Neruda is known. This
the poem is often wrongly attributed.
I do not know, I am * obvious * that is not his. Did not his voice. I really do not understand what is born from this allocation and the consequent general belief.
The famous poem by Martha Medeiros. A Brazilian journalist and writer of 61 '.
The Italian version, does not do justice. Lose what has good to give in to the rhetoric and the public.
At times, very trivial. But effective. True.
It 's a poem to read, make a list of everything that concerns us and start again in a year. Check what we have to change. How much less
are dying. If you have a quality
than the way we're doing, at least.
Because in real life, there are too many moments we breathe, that's all. It is not enough. Not enough.
The sand flows and there is no way to pull up the grains from the hourglass.
Leaving aside the various platitudes and trite like, live each day as if it were your last.
But I do not know how many there really think. I tried to imagine what I'd do, I do not know. I'm not sure.
But definitely do a lot of things I would do fewer problems. Debride feelings.
would all be more intense, maybe.
Then I wonder if, on a day which is not the last, there's a reason why I do not. Just one. And of course there
.

This poem, I read for the first time five years ago. At the time, I had much effect.
And it's funny now, find my crumpled list in a book of high school. Smiling because I'm dying a lot less, apparently!

winds will be nearer and nearer, the last days of apathy and boredom. Or perhaps just the inability to find something this time without letting me breathe a bit 'down. Laughing thoughts facts at the time of as I had read. In a way completely different from now.
Although, certain things, I came across just when you need it.
After all, it is sometimes still not enough to remind me that breathe.