eastern. Holidays, holidays, torrijas and stews, processions and beach, faith and less faith. Y reading days. That gap that we recover to pick up the desired book or reread others. I go home these days and I usually take the opportunity to vary those readings. So I've gotten with poetry, an anthology of The 25.000 best verses of the Spanish language.

Una 1963 edition, and the Readers' Circle, to which my parents were subscribed. Chance has made that, when I open it, I came across that Sonnet to Jesus Crucified of such a beautiful beginning. So these have come to me four poems who wrote four greats -that anonymous, Lope de Vega, Antonio Machado and Gabriela Mistral-. For believers and non-believers. For all. Let's just read them and enjoy their beauty.

Sonnet to Jesus Crucified - Anonymous (XNUMXth century)

It does not move me, my God, to love you
the sky that you have promised me,
nor does hell move me so feared
to stop offending you.

You move me, Lord, move me to see you
nailed to a cross and mocked,
move me to see your body so hurt,
I'm moved by your affronts and your death.

Move me, in short, your love, and in such a way,
that even if there was no heaven, I would love you,
And even if there was no hell, I would fear you.

You don't have to give me because I love you
Well, although what I hope will not wait,
the same that I love you I would love you.

What do I have that my friendship seeks? - Lope de Vega (1562-1635)

What do I have that my friendship seeks?
What interest do you follow, my Jesus,
that at my door covered with dew
Do you spend the dark winter nights?

Oh how hard were my insides,
Well, I did not open it! What a strange delirium,
if the cold ice of my ingratitude
dried up the sores of your pure plants!

How many times did the Angel tell me:
«Alma, now lean out the window,
you will see with how much love to call persistence »!

And how many, sovereign beauty,
"Tomorrow we will open it," he answered,
for the same answer tomorrow!

The arrow - Antonio Machado (1875-1939)

Oh, the arrow, the singing
to the Christ of the gypsies,
always with blood on my hands,
always to unlock!
Sing of the Andalusian people,
that every spring
he's asking for stairs
to climb the cross!
Sing of my land,
that throws flowers
to the Jesus of agony,
and it is the faith of my elders!
Oh, you are not my song!
I cannot sing, nor do I want to
to that Jesus on the tree,
but the one who walked in the sea!

Nocturno - Gabriela Mistral (1889-1957)

Our father who art in Heaven,
why do you forget of me!
You remembered the fruit in February,
when its ruby ​​pulp becomes sore.
My side is open too,
and you don't want to look at me!

You remembered the black cluster
and gave it to the crimson winepress;
and winnowed the leaves of the poplar,
with your breath, in the subtle air.
And in the wide winepress of death
you still don't want to oppress my chest!

Walking I saw the violets open;
the falerno of the wind I drank,
and I have lowered, yellow, my eyelids,
for not seeing more January or April.

And I have tightened my mouth, flooded
of the stanza that I have not to squeeze.
You have smitten the autumn cloud
and you want to turn to me!

The one who kissed my cheek sold me;
He denied me because of the mean tunic.
I in my verses face with blood,
like You on the cloth, I gave him,
and in my garden night, they have been me
Coward John and the Hostile Angel.

Infinite weariness has come
to stare into my eyes, at last:
the tiredness of the day he dies
and the one of the dawn that must come;
The weariness of the tin sky
and the weariness of the indigo sky!

Now I drop the martyr sandal
and the braids asking to sleep.
And lost in the night, I wake up
the cry learned from You:
Our father who art in Heaven,
why do you forget of me!