Julio Galán, one of the best contemporary Mexican painters, dies at 46 años.
6
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there, The silken weavings
of Our afternoons, And pick the strings
of Our insipid Lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within
Whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting
, sleeplessly.
6
there no change of death in paradise?
Never ripe fruit falls? Or do you always hang ESDP
branches in the perfect sky,
immutable, like our perishing earth, With rivers like
our
looking the sea are not the same evasive
costs that never touch with inarticulate member? Why
the bulb sits in a bank or da aroma
coasts with plum?
Oh, should carry our colors there,
silk fabrics of our evenings,
and pluck the strings of our insipid lutes.
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, in that outbreak
burning exist,
our earthly mothers waiting, sleepless.
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