dilluns, 27 de maig de 2013

Babyfather de Sade





Babyfather
We were waiting for the bus,
no-one much around but us.
Then I see this young boy cut a look at me.
I'm stunned,
in a daze.
He had the whole street set ablaze.
It's only love, they say,
makes you feel this way.

She liked his eyes, she wanted more.
The baby gonna have your smile, for sure.
He saw a lovely girl,
smelling sweet and soapy like fresh air.
She saw him looking, acted like she didn't care.
That's how we knew,
and so love grew a flower,
a flower that is you.

Your daddy knows you're a flame.
Your daddy knows you're a flame.
Your daddy knows you're a flame.
Your daddy knows you're a flame.

Even to the angels it may sound like a lie
For you child
He has the troops and extra backup standing by
For you child
For you he's the best he can be
For you child
For you he's the best he can be
Oh child don't you know

Your daddy love come with a life time guarantee
Your daddy knows you're a flame
Your daddy knows you're a flame
Yeah daddy love you child
Your daddy knows you're a flame
Your daddy knows you're a flame
Daddy love you yeah

It's only you he'll say
Made the young boy hungry for the man he is today
It's only love, love, love, love
Can make you feel this way

Your daddy knows you're a flame

dilluns, 20 de maig de 2013

dilluns, 6 de maig de 2013

Poema de Joan Margarit


El present és la llengua dels carrers, maltractada i espúria, arrapada com l’heura a les ruïnes de la història. És la llengua en la qual escric. També és una llengua ben travada per pensar, per pactar i per somiar. I les velles cançons se salvaran


Autor: Joan Margarit i Consarnau(Sanaüja, 11 de maig de 1938), poeta i arquitecte català.

Foto: Josep Losada.

Poema complet:

Si la desesperança té la força
d'una certesa lògica,
i l'enveja un horari tan secret
com un tren militar, estem perduts.
El castellà m’ofega i no l’odio.
No en té la culpa de la seva força:
de la meva feblesa, encara menys.
L’ahir era una llengua ben travada
per pensar, per pactar i per somiar,
que ningú ja no parla:
un subconscient de pèrdua i cobdícia
on ressonen bellíssimes cançons.
El present és la llengua dels carrers,
maltractada i espúria, arrapada
com l’heura a les ruïnes de la història.
És la llengua en la qual escric.
També és una llengua ben travada
per pensar, per pactar i per somiar.
I les velles cançons se salvaran.

Post copiat del bloc: http://diccitionari.blogspot.com/ que us recomane que visiteu si us agrada la poesia.