“O’Sullivan’s March”, The Chieftains

O were my Love yon lilac fair,
  Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring,
And I a bird to shelter there,
  When wearied on my little wing;
How I wad mourn when it was torn
  By autumn wild and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing
  When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d.

O gin my Love were yon red rose
  That grows upon the castle wa’,
And I mysel a drap o’ dew,
  Into her bonnie breast to fa’;
O there, beyond expression blest,
  I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;
Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
  Till fley’d awa’ by Phoebus’ light.

Robert Burns© (1759 – 1796)

Robert Burns was a Scottish poet and a lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland, and is celebrated worldwide. He is the best known of the poets who have written in the Scots language, although much of his writing is also in English and a ‘light’ Scots dialect, accessible to an audience beyond Scotland. He also wrote in standard English, and in these pieces, his political or civil commentary is often at its most blunt.
He is regarded as a pioneer of the Romantic movement and after his death became a great source of inspiration to the founders of both liberalism and socialism. A cultural icon in Scotland and among the Scottish Diaspora around the world, celebration of his life and work became almost a national charismatic cult during the 19th and 20th centuries, and his influence has long been strong on Scottish literature.

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Acerca de Juan Zapato

Desde temprana edad mi incursión por las palabras escritas fue delineando mi perfil intelectual hacia la literatura. Ángela, mi abuela, con su cálida voz y esa facilidad para transmitir oralmente las historias que solían acompañarme por las noches –preparación para el sueño– despertó en mí la pasión por los libros. Luego vino el amor, junto con las primeras palabras que dibujaran versos adolescentes, impulsos quebrados en forzosas rimas, la intención que conlleva la pureza de plasmar sobre una hoja un universo de fantasías reales y de realidades fantásticas, trampas que el inconsciente juega a nuestros sentidos. Trasnochadas de cafés compartidas con poetas, salvadores del mundo, sabihondos y suicidas. Horas sumergidas en librerías buscando los tesoros de la literatura olvidados en algún estante. Cartas que nunca partieron hacia ningún lugar. Conversaciones perdidas con la gente que ya no está”. Ver todas las entradas de Juan Zapato

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