Friday, March 11, 2011


Copyright (c) 2011, Israel Galindo

Last Supper

This Bread I Break

This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wind at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.

Once in this wine the summer blood
Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
Once in this bread
The oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.

This flesh you break, this blood you let
Make desolation in the vein,
Were oat and grape
Born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.

--Dylan Thomas

Art copyright (c) 2011, Israel Galindo

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Ash Wednesday. Sin.


Happy is he whose only problem worth
Complaining about is love's audacious schemes,
Since they alone can never destroy his dreams
Of finding some contentment here on earth.
Happy is he who, far from home, embraces,
Sadly, only his fondest memories
Because, despite his isolation, he sees
And clearly comprehends the sorrow he faces.
Happy is he who lives in any state
Where only fraud and love's deceits and doubt
Are able to torture his heart from within.
But tragic is he who lives beneath the weight
Of some unforgivable act, living without
Consciousness of the damage of his sin.

Luis de Camoes (1524-1580)

Copyright (c) 2010, Israel Galindo