FIFTH A, B

TEACHER KENDY CAROLINA HERNÁNDEZ ROJAS 

READING PLAN 4TH TERM (5°)

PLEASE, CHOOSE TWO POEMS AND EXPOSE THEM ON OCTOBER 25TH

THE ROBBER KITTEN - BY YORDAN VILLEGAS 5-A

ONE

A kitten once to its mother

said,

"I'll never more be good;

But I'll go and be a robber fierce,

And live in a dreary wood,

Wood, wood, wood,

And live in a dreary wood"

TWO

So off it went to the dreary wood,

And there it met a cock,

And blew its hat, with a pistol, off,

Which gave it an awful shock!

Shock, shock, shock,

Which gave it an awful shock!

THREE

It climbed a tree to rob a nest

Of young and tender owls

But the branch broke off and the kitten fell,

With six tremendous howls!

Hows, hows, howls,

With six tremendous howls

FOUR

Soon after that it met a cat;

"Now, give to me your purse;

Or I'll shoot you through, and stab you too,

And kill you, which is worse!

Worse, worse, worse,

And kill you, which is worse".

FIVE

One day it met a Robber Dog,

And they sat down to drink;

The dog did joke, and laugh and sing

Which made the kitten wink,

Wink, wink, wink!

Which made the kitten wink!

SIX

At last they quarrelled; then they fought,

Beneath the greenwood tree;

Till puss was felled with an awful club,

Most terrible to see!

See, see, see,

Most terrible to see!

SEVEN

When puss got up, its eye was shut,

And swelled, and black, and blue;

Moreover, all its bones were sore,

So it began to mew!

Mew, mew, mew,

So it began to mew!

EIGHT

Then up it rose, and scratched its nose,

And went home and said;

"Oh! Mother dear, behold me here,

I'll never more be bad,

Bad, bad, bad,

I'll never more be bad".

If You Forget Me - By Pablo Neruda

BY JADE ARIAS MEJIA 5-A

I want you to know

one thing. 

You know how this is: 

if I look 

at the crystal moon, at the red branch 

of the slow autumn at my window, 

if I touch 

near the fire 

the impalpable ash 

or the wrinkled body of the log, 

everything carries me to you, 

as if everything that exists, 

aromas, light, metals, 

were little boats 

that sail 

toward those isles of yours that wait for me. 

Well, now, 

if little by little you stop loving me 

I shall stop loving you little by little. 

If suddenly 

you forget me 

do not look for me, 

for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad, 

the wind of banners 

that passes through my life, 

and you decide 

to leave me at the shore 

of the heart where I have roots, 

remember 

that on that day, 

at that hour, 

I shall lift my arms 

and my roots will set off 

to seek another land.

But 

if each day, 

each hour, 

you feel that you are destined for me 

with implacable sweetness, 

if each day a flower 

climbs up to your lips to seek me, 

ah my love, ah my own, 

in me all that fire is repeated, 

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 

my love feeds on your love, beloved, 

and as long as you live it will be in your arms 

without leaving mine.

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You - By Pablo Neruda

BY JADE ARIAS MEJIA 5-A

I do not love you except because I love you; 

I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you

My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love; 

I hate you deeply, and hating you

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume

My heart with its cruel

Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who

Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night - WALT WHITMAN, 1819 – 1892 – BY MARIANA CARDENAS 5-A

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night; 

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night relieved to the place at last again I made my way,

Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, enveloped well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,

Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brightened,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.

There  was  a  child  went  forth  every  day - WALT WHITMAN, 

 1819 – 1892 – BY MARIANA CARDENAS 5-A

There was a child went forth every day,

And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became,

And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day . . . . or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,

And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phœbe-bird,

And the March-born lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf, and the noisy brood of the barn-yard or by the mire of the pond-side . . and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there . . . and the beautiful curious liquid . . and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads . . all became part of him.

And the field-sprouts of April and May became part of him . . . . winter grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and of the esculent roots of the garden,

And the apple trees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward . . . . and wood berries . . and the commonest weeds by the road;

And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he had lately risen,

And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school . . and the friendly boys that passed . . and the quarrelsome boys . . and the tidy and fresh-cheeked girls . . and the barefoot negro boy and girl,

And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.

His own parents . . he that had propelled the father stuff at night, and fathered him . . and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him . . . . they gave this child more of themselves than that,

They gave him afterward every day . . . . they and of them became part of him.

The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the suppertable,

The mother with mild words . . . . clean her cap and gown . . . . a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by:

The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust,

The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,

The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture . . . . the yearning and swelling heart,

Affection that will not be gainsaid . . . . The sense of what is real . . . . the thought if after all it should prove unreal,

The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime . . . . the curious whether and how,

Whether that which appears so is so . . . . Or is it all flashes and specks?

Men and women crowding fast in the streets . . if they are not flashes and specks what are they?

The streets themselves, and the façades of houses. . . . the goods in the windows,

Vehicles . . teams . . the tiered wharves, and the huge crossing at the ferries;

The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset . . . . the river between,

Shadows . . aureola and mist . . light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,

The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide . . the little boat slack towed astern,

The hurrying tumbling waves and quickbroken crests and slapping;

The strata of colored clouds . . . . the long bar of maroon tint away solitary by itself . . . . the spread of purity it lies motionless in,

The horizon’s edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of saltmarsh and shoremud;

These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and will always go forth every day,

And these become of him or her that pursues them now.

BY ANA MARIA BOTERO 5-B

In a place under the mountains I met
my princess the town was very small in
its square there was verbena and in the
midst of laughter I was conquered by
the silhouette white like a dove with his
doll eyes I told her: "you are beautiful"
while we go down the slope and when
passing the ten streetlights the full
moon was lit. Silent lavender in bloom
pointing to the stars the air braided
wallflowers of its shine in the mane and
by stopping by the road the sierra was
intimate the deer roared in the distance
and awoke the passion nearby. I
whispered in his ear a thousand
volcanoes, a thousand bonfires What
red lips! What a soft skin! on the leafy
grass. Above the glasses the slow
moon passed bathing it with its tin and
when unbuttoning blindly the buttons on
her blouse slowly, as if groping by the
pupils of the night galloped the white
silk of some magnolias that the wind
unfurled in the secret skin of two
breasts that looked like two fresh
apples. Oh what a steep mercury! of
the fine river on the hillside it had
broken in its channel our spring moon
and the murmur of its waters what
jealous castanets stole the voices to the
wind of the village party while a lattice
of bushes and mint hid a bed where
love gave free rein. A final and deaf
moan he lays us in the brush and the
dew evaporates to the heat of a couple.
The eyes are closed the night loses its
garments and that passenger blue Go
back to wearing the shames eight bells
are sweetened and the almonds are
bitter eight flakes of frost sailing in the
cherries about clothes the pinazo Tell a
secret story no sound in the words
under two thirsty mouths. How the bell
tower growls! from the church tower
what sunflowers! What prunas! It has
the prism of the garden two hearts are
muted He sings the mountain and a
horizon of roosters far from the
mountain cackles.



Sitting in the park in the city - Carlos Alberto Espinosa 5-B

Tall green trees all around me
Sunlight filtering through every branch
Thus I will do my best to be quite witty
The silence in the park calms my spirit
People walking slowly so peacefully
Many of them sitting down reading a book
Some come and go riding a bicycle so happily
Not far from me
The sound of water in the brook
A child playing with a swing
Another sitting down playing in the sand
Who knows what tomorrow will bring,
Although we live far away in another land
People are born
People die
All of us strive to be happy
Others think life can be rather crappy
In the end, one day we all will fly
Sitting in the park,

On an autumn pleasant day,
Watching people walking by
So many things we want to say
How many times we will have to cry.



The Road Not Taken - Carlos Alberto Espinosa 5-B

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.



OF DESPAIR! - - BY DARLING CATALINA LOAIZA 5-B

How they clang,and clash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air
Yet the ear is fully known
By the twanging
And the clanging
How the danger ebbs and flows
Yet the ear distictly tells
tn the jangling
and the wrangling
how the danger sinks and swells
by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells
of the bells
of the bells bells bells bells
bells bells bells
in the clamor and the clanging of the bells

IV

hear the tolling of the bells
iron bells
what would of solemn thought their monody compels
in the silence
of the night,
how we shiver with affright
at the
melancholy
menace of their tone
for every sound that
floats
from the rust within
their throats
is a groan
and the people
ah the
people
they that dwell up
in the steeple
all alone
and who
tolling tolling
tolling

tolling




LONELINESS - BY DARLING CATALINA LOAIZA 5-B

Reading writing
And the
Main purpose
Understand each other

I think

In correct oral responses
Lessons and lessons
Spanish
English
Pattern drills
Lab drills
New applications
And i feal alone
Mew miaow
Miaou miaul
Meou

I can’t do my homework
The teacher distributes the sheets
And sheets and sheets
I never be well prepared
I am a free student alone

Meow
Miaou meow

Meou




A Ballad of Heaven - MARÍA ALEJANDRA PEREA 5-A

He wrought at one great work for years ; 
The world passed by with lofty look; 
Sometimes his eyes were dashed with tears ; 
Sometimes his lips with laughter shook. 

His wife and child went clothed in rags, 
And in a windy garret starved ; 
He trod his measure on the flags, 
And high on heaven his music carved. 

Wistful he grew but never feared ; 
For always on the midnight skies
His rich orchestral score appeared
In stars and zones and galaxies. 

He thought to copy down his score ; 
The moonlight was his lamp; he said, 
‘Listen my love,’ but on the floor

His wife and child were lying dead.




THE VALLEY OF UNREST - BY ASHLEY VEGA SANCLEMENTE 5-A

Once it smiled a silent dell 
Where the people did not dwell; 
They had gone unto the wars, 
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,

Nightly, from their azure towers, 
To keep watch above the flowers, 
In the midst of which all day 
The red sun-light lazily lay. 
Now each visitor shall confess 
The sad valley's restlessness.

Nothing there is motionless – 
Nothing save the airs that brood 
Over the magic solitude. 
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 
That palpitate like the chill seas 
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 
Uneasily, from morn till even, 
Over the violets there that lie 
In myriad types of the human eye - 

Over the lilies there that wave 
And weep above a nameless grave! 
They wave: - from out their fragrant tops 
Eternal dews come down in drops. 
They weep: - from off their delicate stems 
Perennial tears descend in gems.



THE BELLS - BY ASHELY VEGA SANCLEMENTE 5-A

HEAR the sledges with the bells -

Silver bells! 
What a world of merriment their
melody foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
In the icy air of night! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so
musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells - 
From the jingling and the tinkling
of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells 
Golden bells! 
What a world of happiness their
harmony foretells! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! - 
From the molten-golden notes, 
And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens,

while she floats 
On the moon! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony
voluminously wells! 
How it swells! 
How it dwells 
On the Future! - how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells - 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells - 
To the rhyming and the chiming
of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells - 
Brazen bells! 
What tale of terror, now, their
turbulency tells! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their
affright! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the
mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the
deaf and frantic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now - now to sit, or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced
moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and
roar! 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating
air! 
Yet the ear, it fully knows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet, the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and
swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in

the anger of the bells - 
Of the bells - 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells - 
In the clamour and the clangour
of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells - 
Iron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought
their monody compels! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy meaning of

their tone! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 
And the people - ah, the people - 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 
All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 
In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone - 
They are neither man nor woman
- 
They are neither brute nor human
- 
They are Ghouls: - 
And their king it is who tolls: - 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 

Rolls 
A pæan from the bells! 
And his merry bosom swells 
With the pæan of the bells! 
And he dances, and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the pæan of the bells - 
Of the bells: - 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the throbbing of the bells - 

Of the bells, bells, bells - 
To the sobbing of the bells: - 
Keeping time, time, time, 
As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 
To the rolling of the bells - 
Of the bells, bells, bells: - 
To the tolling of the bells - 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells - 
To the moaning and the groaning

of the bells.





A Friend From Above - BY JOSE MIGUEL GOMEZ REBOLLEDO 5-A

I prayed for you before we met…
Not knowing what you’d be, 
I asked the Lord to send a friend. 
One chosen just for me… 

I asked that they’d be Godly
With wisdom of his ways. 
A friend to help and guide me
In the troubles of these days… 

So often in life, we need someone
To listen while we talk. 
Someone who will not condemn or judge
But encourage us as we walk. 

The narrow road we choose to follow
May sometimes make us stumble. 
But to have a friend to catch our fall
Teaches us to be humble. 

When I asked The Lord to send a friend
Though many came and went…
He gave much more than I asked
For you are the friend HE sent.

A Thing of Beauty - BY JOSE MIGUEL GOMEZ REBOLLEDO 5-A

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: 
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways 
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 
With the green world they live in; and clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
Against the hot season; the mid-forest brake, 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 
By - Sponsored Content

LOVE AMERICA / PABLO NERUDA - - BY SARA RODAS 5-A

Before the wig and the jacket were
the rivers, arterial rivers: they were
the cordilleras, in whose wave
threadbare the Condor or the snow
seemed motionless: it was the
dampness and the thicket, The
nameless Thunder yet, The planetary
Pampas.
The earth man was, vessel, eyelid of
tremulous mud, form of clay, was
Caribbean jar, Chibcha stone,
Imperial Cup or Arauca Silica. tender
and bloody was it, but on the hilt of
his moistened glass gun, the initials of
the Earth were Written. no one could
remember them after: the wind forgot
them, the language of the water was
buried, the keys were lost or they
were flooded with silence or blood.
He did not lose his life, pastoral
brothers, but as a wild rose a red drop
fell into the thicket and a ground lamp
was Extinguished.
I'm here to tell the story. from the
peace of the buffalo to the whipped
sands of the final earth, in the
accumulated foams of the Antarctic
light, and by the burrows of the
gloomy Venezuelan peace, I sought
you, my father, young warrior of
Darkness and copper, Oh you, bridal
plant, indomitable hair, Cayman
mother, Metallic Dove.
I, Inca of the silt, touched the stone
and said, who is waiting for me? And I
pressed my hand on a handful of
empty glass. but I walked between
the Zapotec and sweet cries was light

like a deer, and it was the shadow like
a green eyelid.

Nameless Land of mine, without
America, stamen equator, Spear of
purple, your scent I climbed through
the roots to the cup that drank, to the
thinnest word not yet born of my
mouth.




THE LOVING / JAIME SABINES - BY SARA RODAS 5-A

The Loving Quiet. Love is the finest
silence, the most trembling, the most
unbearable. the loving seek, the
loving are the ones who forsake, are
the ones who change, those who
forget. his heart tells them that they
never have to find, they don't find,
they seek.

The love Walk like crazy because
they are alone, alone, alone, giving,
giving each other time, crying
because they do not save Love.
they're worried about Love. The loving
lives up to date, they can't do more,
they don't know.

They're always going, always,
somewhere. they wait, they expect
nothing, but they wait. they know they
never have to Find. love is perpetual
extension, always the next step, the
other, the other. the loving are the
insatiable, those who Always--what
Well! -they must be Alone.

The loving are the hydra of the tale.
they have snakes instead of arms. the
veins of the neck are also swollen like

snakes to suffocate them. the lovers
can't sleep because if they sleep they
eat the worms.

In the darkness, they open their eyes
and fall into them the fright.

They find scorpions under the sheet
and their bed floats like a lake
The love ones are crazy, only crazy,
without God and without Devil.
The loving leave their caves
trembling, hungry, to hunt ghosts.
they laugh at the people who know
everything, of those who love
perpetually, truthfully, of those who
believe in love as a lamp of
inexhaustible oil.
The lovers play to catch the water, to
tattoo the smoke, not to Leave. they
play the long, the sad game of Love.
no one is to be resigned. they say that
no one is to be resigned. the lovers
are ashamed of all Conformation.

Empty, but empty from one to another
rib, death ferments them behind the
eyes, and they walk, weep until the
wee hours when trains and Roosters
are painfully dismissed.

There is sometimes a smell of fresh-
born earth, women who sleep with
their hand in sex, pleased, to streams
of tender water and kitchens. the
lovers are put to sing between lips, a
song not learned, and go crying,
crying, the beautiful Life.

Beautiful - BY MARÍA JOSÉ DE LA TORRE 5-B

What sweet lips of strawberries or orange blossom,
who sip sugar
the gold of his breath
and from the heat the pulp
red kissing
That very rosy cheeks or napallo,
that temper burn
of the touch of my fingers
and peek through the yolks
my soul to shiver.
What bright cliff lashes or flying,
that they cover with their silk
particles of the sky,
the same as sleepers
crystal wings.
That shining hair of rivers or enlunado sea,
which notches waves unharmed
in the torso of the wind,
the same as in the sand
the waves leave salt.
What a tender amazement of a twilight gazelle,
that pokes his head
cutting the horizon,
but when it's close
look without looking.
What a fresh April or spring smile,
that comes out of your mouth
and dance on my lashes
just like the seagull
fly over the sea



the deep dream - BY MARÍA JOSÉ DE LA TORRE 5-B

This dream alone ... If your life
Suddenly dawn before my wait!
Where am I falling?
 Spring,
while, in my dilapidated tome

its smell and it escapes me in the fall.
So lonely is it accelerated
-and there's night there, varying outside-
the seriousness of a helpless urge!

But I suffocate so much in a vacuum
will cease. I will enjoy appearances
that will tackle the shameful endeavor

to fill your absence with my madness.
Reality, reality, do not abandon me
to dream better the deep sleep!

Silence in the park - BY MARÍA JOSÉ MARTÍNEZ RICARDO 5-B

Sitting in the park in the city
Tall green trees all around me
Sunlight filtering through every branch
Thus I will do my best to be quite witty.

 The silence in the park calms my spirit
 People walking slowly so peacefully
 Many of them sitting down reading a book
 Some come and go riding a bicycle so happily.

Not far from me
 The sound of water in the brook
 A child playing with a swing
 Another sitting down playing in the sand
 Who knows what tomorrow will bring,
 although we live far away in another land.

People are born
 People die
 All of us strive to be happy
 Others think life can be rather crappy.

 In the end, one day we all will fly
 Sitting in the park,
 on an autumn pleasant day
 Watching people walking by
 So many things we want to say
 How many times we will have to cry




The armadillo - BY MARÍA JOSÉ MARTÍNEZ RICARDO 5-B 

This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,
rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it's hard
to tell them from the stars —
planets, that is — the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,
or the pale green one. With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it's still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,
receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pair
of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black-and-white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose-flecked, head down, tail down,
and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft! — a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.

DEEP DOWN IS BEAUTY - BY DYLAN LAMPREA 5-B

We don't need to talk
Our hands express the silence around the river
Our eyes rest on the water
Flower´s fingers are flavoring the trees
The path of the border sings the distance
And there is a bird learning to sing
As a baby dreams, full of doubts
Is the silent embroidery by the evergreen?
What makes me think about equivocal?
The chaos is magic
The blade of leaf reflects existence
And you are here
Touching my soul
What else do you want to know?
The clay is in the bottom of the river
Just reach out…

Marriage - BY SANTIAGO MATALLANA 5-A

Here I am perched on a stool "Bauhaus style"
of chrome and raffia when you release your knife and you stop to consider
this fish and its fistula,
this fish and its deep deformity, head of blackjack,
his excoriated back and brown-blood eyes,
his lips of crooked suet,
This fish we are going to have dinner.
You lose money so that they brought,
compact packed in ice,
this fish, a glacial coelacanth preserved against all prediction,
as if some roll of dice, a coin spinning for a thousand years to fall in face,
would have brought ours from all the kitchens,
to his marble slab, this fish flaunting
his swelling like a mace in foam rubber cheeks
and the great wet ulcer that opens
under his spine.
When you start again, sifting the good
from the bad, you let it spill
a viscous nonsense of slipping tripe
from your doll to marble, where
elucidate
with all his words the hierogram most
often joined
the only one in life, miraculous
descent of the goddess, her guts
enough for the cut while you exchange
kiss for kiss.
Meat of his flesh. If you want, I'll eat it.

KISS - BY SANTIAGO MATALLANA 5-A

White bells with pendulums of anise,
Harmonies of glass where my lips become puppets,
And take me to a gentle river of warm current,
Where I dream with seeing your gaze.
But I refuse to open my eyes again,
Because of the infinite world called kiss,
Where a meager second has a life of happiness,
And the only language is the rose with your skin.
Let me find the rhythm that lies between your ribs,
But it feels as I touch your hands,
And expands with every breath,
Leading me back to your mouth.
So no matter how much I separate my eyelids,
I will return to the place in the middle of your smile,
But not before admiring your face,
And thus have a reason to return.

Sick - BY MARTINA TAFUR 5-A

By Shel Silverstein
"I cannot go to school today",
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more--that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broken--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”




My True Friend - BY MARTINA TAFUR 5-A

Abimbola T. Alabi
You always answer when I call
And help me up if I should fall,
But you never complain at all,
My true friend.
You confront me when I am wrong
But will never scold me for long,
Instead, you try to keep me strong,
My true friend. 
You know the funny things to say
To make me laugh my fears away.
Like the sun, you brighten my day,
My true friend.
You see in me gifts I deny
And urge me to give things a try.
You spread for me my wings to fly,
My true friend.
You always perceive what I need
And offer it before I plead.
Just like a book, my mind you read,
My true friend.
You value little things I do
But won't brag of what you do too.
How can I ever repay you,
My true friend?
And greatest of all I have found
When times are tough and I'm down,
You are the one who sticks around,

My true friend.

BEER AND WATER - BY ALEJANDRO VELASQUEZ MORENO 5A

The power was no power
At the moment went off
And I was working there with you
And you, and you… And She
The invisible eye of darkness
And we are in the heart of Manhattan
And we are in Manila In Turkey in Baghdad
In a little town far away in Spain or Mexico
Where everyday is a blackout and nobody knows
But what is this world without power?
And I was at the 34th Street subway station
Or in the train from Brooklyn to Rockefeller Centre
I was boiling water or drinking beer
With my friends feeling the sticky summer day
I smell the wax burning candles around my shadow
And I run away from the tons of trash over the flowing garbage cans
The power was no power at the moment went out
Because the mechanical energy was stopped its great effects
Only the aye saw the incompetence only the aye is watching me
Calmness, quiet, motionless and self-possessed
She is the goddess of tragedy and the comic
Transformation and retain, change and immutability
And She is only one aye between the darkness always in blue and red
Soul and blood. Air and fire. Power and charge or change or choice
The circuit, the habitat, the environment…
It is only one moment in her aye and my life is different!
For this I am here waiting to know more about darkness disturbances
Might be a human error, might be a terrorist action,

Might be business speculations, might the power is tired to be power
Might God have a break up! The aye knows what I ignore
What I can't prejudge
And not, I can't wait more to do something for the afraid children
For the elder, for the invalid, for my friend
Sirens blared across the city: I am scary
The radio ran on batteries, the ices taste chemical
News consumers are also tired to hear lies and lies perturbed
Mental and moral power still on, don¨t worry my friend
The blackout is nothing if tonight we have beer
and WATER!




A WALL IN MY WAY - BY ALEJANDRO VELASQUEZ MORENO 5A

I thought that I was free but it is not true
A wall stands in my way to freedom. Bricks, stones…
Masonry patterns… Maybe so are the trees and rivers
Columns and dams: walls of obstacles
Barries, impediments, burlesque fortresses
As a landscape winter fills my view with snow
The silent wind forms a wall in front my eyes!
And then nothingness, death´s song is constant
Time singing of death… A wall stands, no news
No writing of graffiti… The flat, horizontal flame
My heart is broken. My feet are without shoes
And my hands are without flesh
There is no food so that I can't dream
The wall has no doors to escape through
Can I cross the insipid matter?
I am alone and free but still the wall stands in my way

And

Is anybody there, hearing me on the other side of my wall?

The wounded woman - BY SOPHIA CRUZ 5-B

Only if you once loved
with tooth and nail
no safety net
no life jacket
are you able to understand the bottomless vertigo
that opens at the feet of despair.
She thought she'd found the source of the beginning
when she met him in the middle of the earth
with no shield other than his skin,
polished by the sun like ancient gold.
She loved him without precariousness or questions
lovingly, silently
with that voluptuous gratitude
that the spring rain awakens.
Everything was so simple.
The silver-plated verses of countless poets
seemed to follow her everywhere
as if her heart had become
a faithful pet.
Because nothing endures eternally
one night she learned, as so many have done
before and since
that love is a river with its own rapids
and others' peaceful pools
that always flows to the sea.
Look at it this way: life has taught you,
following its habit of a tireless teacher,
how the soul draws
serene scars on old wounds.

The young poet remembers his father - BY SOPHIA CRUZ 5-B

Now I know that I passed through your life
like rivers pass beneath bridges,
indifferent, troubled, prideful,
with the nebulous triviality
of little things that seem eternal.
Often the obvious
hides behind a halo of uncertainty,
behind the habitual slowness, indistinguishable
from the runaway aura of unique experiences.
It's difficult to know
that the rough beauty of living day by day,
so selfless,
born without clamor or pretense,
is in essence so magical and emphatic
it is impossible to intentionally imitate.
And it is even more difficult
to understand that the celebration of simple things
almost always ends
long before the will of the reveller.
Motionless I saw the silent parade of your life
pass before my eyes
with your weary autumn dreams,
your inner joys,
and your sleeplessness slightly warm.
I think I'm right if I say
I never gave you anything that was not
a gift to myself.
And yet, I asked so much of you.
Today, motionless once again, I go unarmed
to this bitter parade of your absence
while my heart, divided and amazed
begins to discover like the poet
that life goes on in earnest.
I remember you; It's cold.

And the cold brings me back
to your subtle way of
offering me, at the same time, an errant heart,
luck in a Las Vegas casino,
rain in the desert,
the verses of Machado in the outskirts of town.
Now I know that I passed through your life
indolent and unsuspecting, without wonder,
just as all men tend to live
who do not yet know loss.

A FROG HE WOULD A- WOOING GO - BY Maria Del Mar Londoño Fontal 5-A

ONE

A frog he would a-wooing go,
Hey ho, says Rowley,
A frog he would a-wooing go,
Whether his mother would let him or no.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich,
Hey ho, says Anthony Rowley.
So of he set with his opera hat,
Hey ho, says Rowley,
So of he set with his opera hat

TWO

And on the road he met with a rat
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich.
Pray Mr Rat, will you go with me?
Hey ho, says Rowley,
Pray, Mr Rat, will you go with me,
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich

THREE

Pray Mrs Mouse, are you within?
Hey ho, says Rowley,
Oh yes, kind sirs, I’m sitting to spin.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich.

FOUR

Pray, Mrs Mouse, will you give us some beer?
Hey ho, says Rowley,
For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich.

FIVE

Pray, Mr Frog, will you give us a song?
Hey ho, says Rowley,
Let it be something that’s not very long.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich

SIX

Indeed, Mrs Mouse, replied Mr Frog,
Hey ho, says Rowley,
A cold has made me as hoarse as a dog.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich.

SEVEN

Since you have a cold, Mr Frog, Mousey said,
Hey ho, says Rowley,
I’ll sing you a song that I have just made.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich

EIGHT

But while they were all a-merry-making
Hey ho, says Rowley,
A cat and her kittens came tumbling in.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich,

NINE

The cat she seized the rat by the crown,
Hey ho, says Rowley,
The kittens they pulled the little mouse down.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich.

TEN

This put Mr Frog in a terrible fright,
Hey ho, says Rowley,
He took up his hat and wished them goodnight.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich.

ELEVEN

But as Froggy was crossing over a brook,
Hey ho, says Rowley,
A lily-white duck came and gobbled him up.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich.

TWELVE

So there was the end of one, two, three,
Hey ho, says Rowley,
The rat, the mouse, and the little frog-ee.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinich.

POEMAS DE: Rafael Pombo y sus originales ingleses: El gato bandido. El renacuajo
paseador 1855 y 1872.





LITTLE BO- PEEP - BY Maria Del Mar Londoño Fontal 5-A

ONE

Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them
And doesn't know where to find them.
Leave them alone, And they'll come home,
Wagging their tails behind them
And bring their tails behind them.

TWO

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
For they were still a-fleeting.

THREE

Then up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left their tails behind them.

FOUR

It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray
Into a meadow hard by,
There she espied their tails side by side,
All hung on a tree to dry.

FIVE

She heaved a sigh and wiped her eye,
And over the hillocks went rambling,
And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should,
To tack each again to its lambkin.

FRIEND, DO NOT DIE - BY MANUEL ALEJANDRO BUENO AMAYA 5-B
AUTHOR: Pablo Neruda

Friend, do not die

Listen to me these words that come out burning,
and that nobody would say if I did not say them.
Friend, do not die

I am the one waiting for you in the starry night.
Which under the bloody setting sun awaits.
I watch the fruits fall on the dark earth.
I look dance the drops of dew on the grass.
In the night to the thick perfume of the roses,
when the round of the immense shadows dances.
Under the southern sky, the one that awaits you when
the afternoon air like a mouth kisses.
Friend, do not die

I am the one who cut the rebellious garlands
for the jungle bed fragrant sun and jungle.
The one who brought yellow hyacinths in his arms.
And torn roses. And bloody poppies.
The one who crossed his arms to wait for you, now.
The guy that broke his arches. The one that bent his arrows.
I am the one who keeps the taste of grapes on my lips.

Refreshed clusters. Red bites.
He who calls you from the plains sprouted.
I am the one who wants you in the hour of love.
The afternoon air shifts the tall branches.
Drunk, my heart. under God, wobbles.
The unleashed river breaks into tears and sometimes
his voice becomes thin and becomes pure and tremulous.
The blue complaint of the water resounds in the evening.
Friend, do not die!

I'm the one waiting for you in the starry night,
on the golden beaches, on the blonde eras.
The one who cut hyacinths for your bed, and roses.
Lying among the herbs I am the one waiting for you!

One of Pablo Neruda's saddest poems, about a friend who is fighting for her life
and may not survive. A piece that reaches
 the heart and desperately asks you not
to leave.




THE SEA - BY MANUEL ALEJANDRO BUENO AMAYA 5-B
AUTHOR: Pablo Neruda

I need the sea because it teaches me:
I do not know if I learn music or conscience:
I do not know if it's alone or being deep
or just snore voice or dazzling
Assumption of fish and ships.
The fact is that even when I'm asleep
somehow magnetic circle
in the university of the swell.
It's not just the crushed shells
as if some trembling planet
will participate gradually death,
no, from the fragment I reconstruct the day,
from a streak of salt the stalactite
and of a spoonful the immense god.
What once taught me I keep it! It's air,
incessant wind, water and sand.
It seems little for the young man
that here he came to live with his fires,
and yet the pulse that went up
and went down to its abyss,
the cold of the blue that crackled,
the crumbling of the star,
the tender unfolding of the wave
squandering snow with the foam,
the still power, there, determined

like a deep stone throne,
he replaced the room in which they grew
stubborn sadness, piling up forgetfulness,
and changed my existence abruptly:
I gave my adhesion to pure movement.

The sea was always part of the life of Neruda, who lived in Valparaíso, a city that is
located on the Chilean coast. There he found, many times, the inspiration to write.
In these verses it is possible to perceive the love towards the smell, the color and
the movement of the waves and everything that surrounds this paradise.

A BUSY DAY - BY SANTIAGO GRAJALES 5-B

Pop in pop out
pop over the road
pop out for a walk
pop down to the shop
can’t stop got to pop

got to pop? pop where?
pop what?

Well I’ve got to
pop round pop up
pop in to town pop out and see
pop in for tea pop down to the shop
can’t stop got to pop

got to pop? pop where?
pop what?

Well I’ve got to pop in
pop out pop over the road
pop out for a walk pop in for a talk…

ACRÓSTICO DE LEWIS CARROLL EN ‘ALICIA’ - BY SANTIAGO GRAJALES 5-B 

A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July—

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear—

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die.
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream—
Lingering in the golden gleam—
Life, what is it but a dream?

She walks in beauty, like the night - BY VALERIA BASTIDAS BAEZ 5-B

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies

.One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent

By: Lord Byron




TO RESIST - BY VALERIA BASTIDAS BAEZ 5-B

What do I have from God
That I feel everything That everything frightens me
And I am aware of it I ignore everything
And I am looking for the shadow
Of the fire
What do I have from the air
That I fly, And I come back
And I touch the light with my eyes
I feel sleep, Floating in a dream
What do I have from the water
That my eyes are as rain
The clouds are going up and down
And by the rivers
That flow through my body
What do I have What do I have from the sun
That I am burning myself What do I have in my soul
That I increase As a twig is bent, so it will grow
Growing up for an instant Going down, Going down to the earth
What do I have What do I have from God
That I move That I climb naked Through the tree
And there in its warm branches I wait
Many leaves fall down
They call me They call me
They call me down
I resist going down I resist!
Well, What do I have from God
If I die?


By: Julie Sopetrán

POEM XV -  - BY MARIANA GUTIERREZ J. 5-A

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,

and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.

It seems as though your eyes had flown away

and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul

you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.

You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,

and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.

It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.

And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:

Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence

that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.

You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.

Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,

distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.

One word then, one smile is enough.

And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

Twenty Love Poems: And a Song of Despair - BY  Mariana Gutierrez J.

PABLO NERUDA

Tonight I Can Write 

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. 

Write, for example, "The night is starry 

and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance".

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. 

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. 

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. 

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. 

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. 

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. 

How could one not have loved her great still eyes. 

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. 

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. 

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. 

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. 

What does it matter that my love could not keep her. 

The night is starry and she is not with me. 

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. 

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. 

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. 

My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. 

The same night whitening the same trees. 

We, of that time, are no longer the same. 

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. 

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. 

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses. 

Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. 

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. 

Love is so short, forgetting is so long. 

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms 

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. 

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer 

and these the last verses that I write for her. 

BY LUISA MARIA VALLEJO REALPE - 5-A

That green toad

it is hidden and lost;

Well, do not kiss him

No princess.

Because with a kiss

he will become a prince

or handsome prince;

And he wants to be a toad!

He does not want reign,

nor golden throne,

nor huge castle,

nor yellow cloak.

Nor lackeys

Not three thousand vassals.

He wants to see the moon

from the lagoon.

One early morning

some fairy loved it;

and so it has stayed:

Toad and enchanted.

Enjoy everything:

gets in the mud

skipping, alone

all the protocol.

And he cares a whistle

if it's not pretty

hunt an insect;

That nobody is perfect!

Your royal canopy?

He does not remember him.

His red sheet?

Prefer a sheet.

His helmet and his shield?

He likes to go nude.

The Princess Eliana?

He loves a frog.

To a green frog

that jumps and loses

and look at the moon

from the lagoon.

BY LUISA MARIA VALLEJO REALPE - 5-A

Rainbow of colors

today you have scattered

and the flower gardens

all have been decorated.

Multicolored slide

you scatter through the meadow

painting each button

of showy spring.

Stripes of bright colors

that to the horizon you draw

then paint the trees

with that beauty of yours.

Natural phenomenon

that you stamped on the sky

crystal rainbow

candy bag

Prism of beautiful charms,

multicolored fringe,

I look at you and I never get tired ...

You are the work of the Creator!

BY DANNA LUCIA IZQUIERDO CASTILLO 5-B

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so Rolling

On the human heart a Stone-

They are neither man nor woman-

They are neither brute nor man-

They are Ghouls:-

And their King it is who tolls:-

And he rolls, Rolls ,rolls,

Rolls

Paean from the bells!

And his merry bosom swells

With the paean of the bells!

And he dances, and he yells;

Keeping time, time, time

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells-

Of the bells, bells, bells-

To the sobbing of the bells:-

Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme

To the rolling of the bells-

Of the bells, bells, bells:-

To the tolling of the bells-

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells-

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Of despair!

How they clang, and Clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear, it fully knows,

By the twanging,

And the claning,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-

Of the bells-

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells-

In the clamor and the claning of the bells

Heart he tolling of the bell-

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

Is a groan

Ana the people-ah, the people-

They that dwell up in the steeple,all alone

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling.

AS THE ARDENT SHADOW - BY DAVID FERNANDO ESTRADA ROJAS 5-B

Words are golden

As the eyes of the cat in the dark night

In front of flash light

Surprised it when it was watching the moon

My tongue is quiet testing the brevity

Of experience

There are not monosyllables

Only a noisy sight in the deepest music

If my free verse

Words are also red inside my body

As the fire in the mirror

As a fan turning the air, yellow

As a wed sex under the lightning

As a rape pomegranate full of sweet blood

Or gorgeous gems encrusted in the tongue´s pleasure

Because I know, you are in my body

When I named you

But also, when my saliva parfums your kisses

Sex between the harvest white fields

Black, red, yellow, in the central labyrinth

Of life

As a silence tonge shadow

SEARCH - BY DAVID FERNANDO ESTRADA ROJAS 5-B

The way is not the way is the fight

With the unknown with the luck with destiny

And what is that when you feel in your blood

the furious wishes of a better world?

You call a god to combat the reason of existence

You feel the incompetence the conflict the unreasonable

You feel the guidelines of how to stop in the side

Dreaming with other ways. Watching your eyes impassive

doing nothing

And I perceived the weather

The rain over my bones, the storm, the rays

The intentions, the naked bodies crossing one side to another

Without homes, without hopes, and alones…and women

wandering in a men’s planet. Cells all over the ways

intelligent or foolish cells that kill us. I still walking

and looking for at least a single cell, or a tiny-segment-matter

showing me love!

SILENCE IN THE PARK - BY ISABEL TATIANA CASTILLO QUICENO 5-B

Sitting in the park in the city

Tall green trees all around me

Sunlight filtering through every branch

Thus I will do my best to be quite witty

The silence in the park calms my spirit

People walking slowly so peacefully

Many of them sitting down reading a book

Some come and go riding a bicycle so happily

Not far from me

The sound of water in the brook

A child playing with a swing

Another sitting down playing in the sand

Who knows what tomorrow will bring,

although we live far away in another land

People are born

People die

All of us strive to be happy

Others think life can be rather crappy

In the end, one day we all will fly

Sitting in the park,

on an autumn pleasant day

Watching people walking by

So many things we want to say 

How many times we will have to cry.

The Fisherman - Abbie Farwell Brown - BY ISABEL TATIANA CASTILLO QUICENO 5-B

The fisherman goes out at dawn 

When every one's abed, 

And from the bottom of the sea 

Draws up his daily bread.

His life is strange ; half on the shore 

And half upon the sea 

Not quite a fish, and yet not quite 

The same as you and me.

The fisherman has curious eyes; 

They make you feel so queer, 

As if they had seen many things

Of wonder and of fear.

They're like the sea on foggy days,

Not gray, nor yet quite blue; 

They're like the wondrous tales he tells 

Not quite yet maybe true.

He knows so much of boats and tides, 

Of winds and clouds and sky! 

But when I tell of city things, 

He sniffs and shuts one eye!

TRUE LOVE - Sara González 5-B

With the noise of the eclipse
the night he took off his petticoat,
the moon of great silence
our roof felt
and while covering your face
the star of his broadside
I had you in my arms
on the balcony of the beach.
On the sand they rammed
the brave bulls of water
and bring us the ocean
its twelve waves of silver
through the pampas of my chest
Your cheek was stranded.
In the world of dreams
your two little eyes were swimming,
the breeze crossed the coast
like a salty tongue
and the freshness of his caresses
put on your two tabs
the vane of the wheats
and a smile on my face.
What a joy! What sweetness!
his young soul emanated,
my little son slept
and something beautiful dreamed,
that's why in my two eyes
the tenderness came to the forge,
that three months have their faces
that his lips are scarlet
and for his alabaster skin
my heart spills.
I kept humming
from my throat a lullaby
unraveling thoughts
in braided poetry
of the love that I carry inside
versed in golden notes
when a fleeting star
with the dust of their wings

came after my singsong
to see how he kissed you.
I stopped singing then
still far from the dawn
and when all the lights die
messy neon
He caught on in all his greatness
the glare of the Milky Way.
The embrace of the shell
in my ears he whistled,
the moon made of papyrus
over you was shelled
and at that moment
they stopped the harps
of all my thoughts
opening the way to the fairies
of that landscape of love
that you unconsciously gave,
plunging me completely
in the atmosphere of the beach,
submerging my universe
in the dreams of your eyes,
feeling the pleasure of loving you
surrounded by the sweet nothing.




HERMOSICITY - Sara González 5-B 

What sweet lips of strawberries or orange blossom,
who sip sugar
the gold of his breath
and from the heat the pulp
red kissing
That very rosy cheeks or napallo,
that temper burn
of the touch of my fingers
and peek through the yolks
my soul to shiver.
What bright cliff lashes or flying,
that they cover with their silk
particles of the sky,
the same as sleepers
crystal wings.
That shining hair of rivers or enlunado sea,
which notches waves unharmed
in the torso of the wind,
the same as in the sand
the waves leave salt.
What a tender amazement of a twilight gazelle,
that pokes his head
cutting the horizon,
but when it's close
look without looking.
What a fresh April or spring smile,
that comes out of your mouth
and dance on my lashes
just like the seagull

fly over the sea





THE SERPENT - Nicole Marín 5-B

Have you ever heard about a serpent
whose malicious method of attack
is to act lifeless and defenseless
at the bottom of a lake?
The prey, convinced that it is dead,
approach with their guard down
to pay the steep price of this crowning innocence
of encroaching on the executioner.
Like a deceitful snake,
time tends to give us the illusion
to think that its threat does not exist.
The youth, brief and beautiful,
leaves it lurking, a coward,
at the bottom of the lake.
And we dance, ignoring it,
unable to comprehend in our futile efforts
the betrayal it holds for us.
False flatterer, it pretends to give us
everything that it already knows
that soon it shall take away.
When we see the face of the serpent
when at the end of the ruse we realize,
it is often very late, far into the night
and we are almost always too tired.




BLESSED JOY - Nicole Marín 5-B

They confuse you with others, joy:
ingenuousness, simplicity,
candor
innocence.

They underestimate you with diminutives
substitute for happiness
eternally impoverished sister of euphoria.
They seem not to remember the icy routine
when demands are drained of blood
and dread imprisons like a precipice.
Don’t pick up the gauntlet, I beg of you,
forget the challenge that ignorance casts out.
Don’t abandon us in the middle of some ocean,
without your light, joy,
the one with outstretched hands
the one who makes the soul a liveable place.
Don’t heed the sounds from the trenches,
the vain rhetoric of the opportunists.
You are the most unique distillate of liberty,
the spontaneous orgasm of the spirit.
Well-found joy
the purest of tastes
the pleasing one
you who live and reign in our cleansed marrow
now and in the dawn of every now
stay with us.

The flower – By Alejandro Isaza 5-B

A blessed afternoon

You gave me, beloved, a flower,

And then its perfume

It intoxicated my heart.

It was a white and pure jasmine

more not as much as you;

emblem of my daydreams

symbols of your life.

I keep it in my chest

and in him he will always live;

my kisses have withered me

and I have watered it while crying.

But it retains the aroma

of your virginal breath

From your tears the trace,

of your looks maybe.

It will be the sweet companion

of my sad loneliness;

And while you do not forget me

You will never abandon me.

More, perhaps unfortunately,

you will forget my love,

they will not resist their leaves

the storm of pain.

And in the middle of my bitterness,

of my anguish and affliction,

It will fall apart into a thousand pieces,

And with the heart!

Poem XX. – By Alejandro Isaza 5-B

I can write the saddest verses tonight.

Write, for example: "The night is starry,

and they shiver, blue, the stars, in the distance. "

The night wind spins in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest verses tonight.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this I held her in my arms.

I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I also loved her.

How not to have loved her great still eyes.

I can write the saddest verses tonight.

To think that I do not have her. Feeling I've lost her.

Hear the inmense night, even more without her.

And the verse falls to the soul as to the grass the dew.

Does it matter that my love could not keep it.

The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That is all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance.

My soul is not content with having lost it.

As if to bring it closer my gaze searches for it.

My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, the ones then, are not the same.

I no longer love her, it's true, but how much I loved her.

My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Of other. Will be from another. As before my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body. His infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, it's true, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, and oblivion is so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,

My soul is not content with having lost it.

Even though this is the last pain that she causes me,

and these are the last verses that I write to you.

TO RESIST – Geronimo Llanos Soto 5 – B

What do I have from God

That I feel everything

That everything frightens me

And I am awere of it

I ignore everything

And I am looking for the shadow

Of the fire

What do I have from the air

That I fly

And I come back

And I touch the light with my eyes

I feel sleep

Floating

Flouting

in a dream

What do I have from the water

That my eyes are as rain

The clouds are going up and down

And by the rivers

That flow through my body

What do I have

What do I have from the sun

That I am burning myself

What do I have in my soul

That I increase

As a twig is bent, so it will grow

Growing up for an instant

Going down

Going down

to the earth

What do I have

What do I have from God

That I move

That I climb naked

Through the tree

And there in its warm branches

I wait

Many leaves fall down

They call me

They call me

They call me down

I resist going down

I resist!

Well,

What do I have from God

If I die?

Julie Sopetrán

MESSAGE IN COLORS - Geronimo Llanos Soto 5 – B

Lit candles. Faces. Memories,

and an entrance that´s rainbow: protection for the place

of rest and meditation.

Necklaces. Cempasuchitl, pre-Hispanic links, songs,

paper medals, flames talking to the wind

the diverse language departed.

It is the prime time of the celebration

or death´s needle,

It is the decomposition of matter, transformed into art…

Who could have imagined so much beauty on a tomb?

Mole. Glass of water. Copal. Salt. Prayers.

Firecrackers. Fruits. Bread. Music.

Corridos. Bolas. Romantic songs.

History, praised…

In Morelos everything is possible

Gloom battles with life and its victor,

it is once again for a little while, happines, live tradition

which overcomes reality.

It was before these ornate gravesites, when I knew

That in Ocotepec, as in my heart,

those that have departed return every year to remind us of their love.

And that only LOVE can save us.

Julie Sopetrán

PATH TO BELEN  – BY GERONIMO  MENDOZA CARDONA 5-B

Going a burrito walking

step by step to Bethlehem

little flowers greet him

and he does not know why.

On his back goes Maria

and José is at his side

after a few days

a little boy has to be born.

Giddy Up! Arre borny!

Arre, arre! And you will arrive

Take the travelers soon,

and then you will rest.

POETRY OF TRANSPORTS  – BY GERONIMO  MENDOZA CARDONA 5B

In the era of the castles

They traveled a lot,

But he was not going by car

neither on a motorcycle nor on a plane.

The princess was in a carriage,

Shot by four horses,

with her pink dress,

His lackeys helped him.

The gentleman was traveling

Fast as lightning,

crossing the woods

Mounted on his horse.

On a sailing boat

The seven seas were sailed

To travel faster

To other distant places.

THE FANTASMITA – BY GERONIMO  MENDOZA CARDONA 5B

This is the story of the ghost Fair

that every night he dies of fright.

Live the poor guy in a subway

among some spiders bred for years.

As soon as it gets dark it moans of dread:

- Will he come tonight?

What a scare! How awful!

At midnight, Luis Vampiro arrives,

He comes to accompany him because they are very good friends.

- Tell me, ghost! What scares you? -

the mummy asks from his corner.

Cry the ghostly fog in spurts

And then he whispers: -I'm afraid of mice!

WITH YOU - Isabella Rios Marulanda 5B

Because soul doesn’t live among things
but in the bold action of deciphering them,
I love the sister light that encourages my senses.

A thousand times I've wanted to find out who I am.

After so many names,
so much journey towards my own compass,
I could embrace the sand for centuries.
Watch the silence pass by and keep on holding it.

The truth is not in me, every second
is a fleeting attempt to catch the unattainable.
The truth is not in anyone, and it lies even further
from a king than from any beggar.
If someone is thinking about chasing it
he should not forget this:
fire has always been a harbinger of decline
as intensity the threshold of oblivion.

When my eyes turn back to the origin,
I ask one last gift.
I claim nothing else.

Put words into my grave.
The ones I said a thousand times
and the ones I would have desired to say at least once.

Keep words to my side.
The ones I used to love,
the ones I learned along the way,
the first ones I heard from the lips of my mother.

Wrap me with them without qualm,
fear not their weight.
But indulge the words with you.
Treat them with respect.
Put them on my heart.

The truth is not in anyone, but perhaps
words could engender it.

Maybe then he whom I told with you
and for whom with you became his custom,
would lie beside me tenderly,
together in the most sacred void,
when eternity takes our measure,
when eternity is pronounced with you.

THE YOUNG POET REMEMBERS HIS FATHER - Isabella Rios Marulanda 5-B

Now I know that I passed through your life

like rivers pass beneath bridges,

indifferent, troubled, prideful,

with the nebulous triviality

of little things that seem eternal.

Often the obvious

hides behind a halo of uncertainty,

behind the habitual slowness, indistinguishable

from the runaway aura of unique experiences.

It's difficult to know

that the rough beauty of living day by day,

so selfless,

born without clamor or pretense,

is in essence so magical and emphatic

it is impossible to intentionally imitate.

And it is even more difficult

to understand that the celebration of simple things

almost always ends

long before the will of the reveller.

Motionless I saw the silent parade of your life

pass before my eyes

with your weary autumn dreams,

your inner joys,

and your sleeplessness slightly warm.

I think I'm right if I say

I never gave you anything that was not

a gift to myself.

And yet, I asked so much of you.

Today, motionless once again, I go unarmed

to this bitter parade of your absence

while my heart, divided and amazed

begins to discover like the poet

that life goes on in earnest.

I remember you; It's cold.

And the cold brings me back

to your subtle way of

offering me, at the same time, an errant heart,

luck in a Las Vegas casino,

rain in the desert,

the verses of Machado in the outskirts of town.

BY MARÍA JOSÉ LÓPEZ VARELA

I remember the first time
in which the two of us go up the sky
with a bunch of doubts in his fist.

That first time:
that we do not leave traces of forgetfulness,
neither of pains, nor of hidden anxieties.
Filled with fear and uncertainty.
What do we think the sunset
It was a dawn in retreat:

Some stars are shipwrecked
in the still clear sky,
the sun's rays match
in the foam of an imaginary sea
forming beautiful golden colors
and infinite orange tones illuminated.

This day nothing has happened
people walk as always
with slow or hurried pace
and one other strange smile
as a pretext, alone,
from time to time

That's why I can not help thinking
and fall in love in the process,
my soul seeks and needs you
because you are my daily air.

 BY MARÍA JOSÉ LÓPEZ VARELA

face to face loses the words

in the twinkling of your eyes,

Wishing to know only your name

and it's not that you want

it's part of you, it's your essence ...

and it's something inevitable. Three things have me imprisoned

of loves the heart:

the beautiful Agnes, the ham

and eggplant with cheese.

This Agnes, lovers, is

who had such power in me,

what made me hate

everything that was not Agnes.

Bring me a year without brain,

until on one occasion

he gave me a snack of ham

and eggplant with cheese.

In taste, measure and weight

I do not find any distinction:

I already want Ines, and ham,

Song of Nature - Poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson - Santiago Hurtado - 5B

Mine are the night and morning,

The pits of air, the gulf of space,

The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,

The innumerable days.

I hid in the solar glory,

I am dumb in the pealing song,

I rest on the pitch of the torrent,

In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,

No tribes my house can fill,

I sit by the shining Fount of Life,

And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers

Gathering along the centuries

From race on race the rarest flowers,

My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers

My apples ripened well,

And light from meliorating stars

With firmer glory fell.

I wrote the past in characters

Of rock and fire the scroll,

The building in the coral sea,

The planting of the coal.

And thefts from satellites and rings

And broken stars I drew,

And out of spent and aged things

I formed the world anew;

What time the gods kept carnival,

Tricked out in star and flower,

And in cramp elf and saurian forms

They swathed their too much power.

Time and Thought were my surveyors,

They laid their courses well,

They boiled the sea, and baked the layers

Or granite, marl, and shell.

But he, the man-child glorious,--

Where tarries he the while?

The rainbow shines his harbinger,

The sunset gleams his smile.

My boreal lights leap upward,

Forthright my planets roll,

And still the man-child is not born,

The summit of the whole.

Must time and tide forever run?

Will never my winds go sleep in the west?

Will never my wheels which whirl the sun

And satellites have rest?

Too much of donning and doffing,

Too slow the rainbow fades,

I weary of my robe of snow,

My leaves and my cascades;

I tire of globes and races,

Too long the game is played;

What without him is summer’s pomp,

Or winter’s frozen shade?

I travail in pain for him,

My creatures travail and wait;

His couriers come by squadrons,

He comes not to the gate.

Twice I have moulded an image,

And thrice outstretched my hand,

Made one of day, and one of night,

And one of the salt sea-sand.

One in a Judaean manger,

And one by Avon stream,

One over against the mouths of Nile,

And one in the Academe.

I moulded kings and saviours,

And bards O’er kings to rule;--

But fell the starry influence short,

The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,

And mix the bowl again;

Seethe, fate! the ancient elements,

Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song

Blend, ripen race on race,

The sunburnt world a man shall breed

Of all the zones, and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,

My oldest force is good as new,

And the fresh rose on yonder thorn

Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

CARPE DIEM - BY JUAN MIGUEL PÉREZ 5-A 

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
 O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming That can sing
both high and low; Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
Journey’s end in lovers’ meeting– 
Every wise man’s son doth know.

What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,–
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,

Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

KISS - BY JUAN MIGUEL PÉREZ 5-A

White bells with pendulums of anise,
Harmonies of glass where my lips become puppets,
And take me to a gentle river of warm current,
Where I dream with seeing your gaze.

But I refuse to open my eyes again,
Because of the infinite world called kiss,
Where a meager second has a life of happiness,
And the only language is the rose with your skin.

Let me find the rhythm that lies between your ribs,
But it feels as I touch your hands,
And expands with every breath,
Leading me back to your mouth.

So no matter how much I separate my eyelids,
I will return to the place in the middle of your smile,
But not before admiring your face,

And thus have a reason to return.

Life Doesn't Frighten Me - by Maya Angelou
BY JUAN SEBASTIÁN VERGARA MENDOZA

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn't frighten me at all

Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud
Life doesn't frighten me at all

Mean old Mother Goose
Lions on the loose
They don't frighten me at all

Dragons breathing flame
On my counterpane
That doesn't frighten me at all.

I go boo
Make them shoo
I make fun
Way they run
I won't cry
So they fly
I just smile
They go wild

Life doesn't frighten me at all.

Tough guys fight
All alone at night

Life doesn't frighten me at all.

Panthers in the park
Strangers in the dark
No, they don't frighten me at all.

That new classroom where
Boys all pull my hair
(Kissy little girls
With their hair in curls)
They don't frighten me at all.

Don't show me frogs and snakes
And listen for my scream,
If I'm afraid at all
It's only in my dreams.

I've got a magic charm
That I keep up my sleeve
I can walk the ocean floor
And never have to breathe.

Life doesn't frighten me at all
Not at all
Not at all.


Life doesn't frighten me at all.

‘The Owl and the Pussycat’  by Edward Lear

BY JUAN SEBASTIÁN VERGARA MENDOZA

I

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of

money,

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!’

 II

Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!

How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have

tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?’

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the Bong-Tree grows

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

IN A RESTLESS WORLD LIKE THIS IS -  BY Daniel Gil 5-A

Not long ago, or maybe I dreamt it

Or made it up, or have suddenly lost

Track of its train in the hocus pocus

Of the dissolving days; no, if I bend

The turn around the corner, come at it

From all three sides at once, or bounce the ball

Against all manner of bleary-eyed fortune

Tellers—well, you can see for yourselves there´s

Nothing up my sleeves, or notice even

Rocks occasionally break if enough

Pressure is applied. As far as you go

In one direction, all the further you´ll

Have to go on before the way back has

Become totally indivisible

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN - BY Daniel Gil 5-A

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bend in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence;

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

WHAT IF - Alejandro Marín Paez 5-A

Last night, while I lay thinking here.

Some Whatifs crawled inside my ear.

And pranced and partied all night long.

And sang their same old Whatif song:

What if I´m dumb in school?

What if they´ve closed the swimming pool?

What if I get beat up?

What if there´s poison in my cup?

What if I start to cry?

What if I get sick and die?

What if I flunk that test?

What if green hair grows on my chest?

What if nobody likes me?

What if a bolt of lightning strikes me?

What if I don´t grow taller?

What if my head starts getting smaller?

What if the fish won´t bite?

What if the wind tears up my kite?

What if they start a war?

What if my parents get divorced?

What if the bus is late?

What if my teeth don´t grow in straight?

What if I tear my pants?

What if I never learn to dance?

Everything seems well, and then

The nighttime What if strike again!

Saying Goodbye - Alejandro Marín Páez 5-A

My mum, she tells a lot of lies

She never did before

But from now until she dies

She´ll tell a whole lot more

Ask my mum how she is

And because she can´t explain

She will tell a little lie

Because she can´t describe the pain

Ask my mum how she is

She´ll say ‘’I am alright”

If that´s the truth then tell me

Why does she cry each night?

Ask my mum how she is

“I’m fine, I’m well, I´m coping”

For God´s sake mum just tell the truth

Just say your heart is broken

She´ll love me all her life

I loved her all of mine

But if you ask her how she is

She´ll lie and say she´s fine

I am here in the heaven

I cannot hug from here

If she lies to you don´t listen

Hug her and hold her near

On the day we meet again

We´ll smile and I’ll be bold

I´ll say, “you’re lucky to get in here mum

With all the lies you told!”

A SHEET OF “LOVE” - SANTIAGO JOSÉ MARÍN BENAVIDEZ. 5-B

What suffering is seen on an autumn leaf

Strange look to the last extreme

Like a sharp blade

How hesitant to see his eyes towards the tree

Before being cold

Like a transparent tear

And of sadness before the leaf dies

Only comparable when a rose

Slowly it is leafless

Petal with petal torn off the stem

What he begs

That leaf represented in you

In the tree of my life

Subject with love and passion

From your kisses

That does not give up to get rid

From a very fine crystal branch

Against the strong breeze of the wind

That you only want to get rid of me.

People leave with time

Like the leaves

But with love the problems

They are solved and the sheet

It resurfaces again

Even the sun goes down every night

To be reborn the next day

Come to me!

Do not stay in the middle of the road

Because something is waiting for you

To be happy.

Author: Hernan R. Cornejo Véliz.

THE TREE FRIENDS- SANTIAGO JOSÉ MARÍN BENAVIDES. 5-B

Maybe every leaf of a tree characterizes one of our friends.

The first one born of the outbreak is our friend Dad and our friend Mom,

that shows us what life is.

Then come the brother friends,

with whom we divide our space so that they can flourish like us.

We went to meet the whole family of leaves that we respect and wish good.

But fate presents us to other friends,

which we did not know would come our way.

Many of them we call friends of the soul, of heart.

They are sincere, they are true.

They know when we are not well, they

know what makes us happy.

And sometimes one of those soul friends bursts in our hearts

and then he is called a friend in love.

That gives shine to our eyes, music to our lips, jumps at our feet

But there are also those friends for a while,

Maybe a vacation or a few days or a few hours.

They usually put a lot of smiles on our faces,

during the time that we are close.

Talking closely, we can not forget distant friends,

those that are on the tip of the branches

and that when the wind blows they always appear between one leaf and another

Time passes, summer leaves, autumn approaches and we lose some of our leaves,

some are born in another summer and others remain for many seasons.

But what makes us happier is that those that fell are still nearby,

feeding our roots with joy.

They are memories of wonderful moments when they crossed our path

wish you, leaf of my tree, peace, love, health, luck and prosperity.

Simply because every person that passes in our life is unique.

He always leaves a little of himself and takes a little from us.

There will be those who will take a lot,

but there will not be those who will not leave us anything.

This is the biggest responsibility of our life

and the evident proof that two souls do not meet by chance.

Author: Jorge Luis Borges.

The Tiger” by William Blake (1757-1827) - BY Nicolás Rodríguez 5-A

Tiger Tiger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp,

Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears

And water’d heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger Tiger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

“A Psalm of Life” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) - BY Nicolás Rodríguez 5-A

What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each tomorrow

Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,—act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;—

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

THIRD TERM 

1. Present the complete notebook with activities carried out in class and / or at home (tasks) (this will not have any qualification, but it must show the complete notebook)
2. Students must define key vocabulary, explain a process, and explain origin of words.
3. Students must retell or relate from a myth, story or legend. They can identify the story of the universe related with mythology.
4. Students must hypothesizing and speculating about reading selections. They can understand the appropriate meaning of some words according to the context.
5. Students can speak and can understand texts with information in the past and in present perfect.

SECOND TERM

1.  Present the complete notebook with activities carried out in class and / or at home (tasks) (this will not have any qualification, but it must show the complete notebook)
2. See the following videos in the link that appears:
   

    Lincoln and Laura Visit the Farm | Story Books for Kids | Bedtime Story for Kids | Bedtime Stories 

   
   
   

   
   

3. Based on the videos, you must present the recovery of the English area. In the habilitation you will have to make use of: vocabulary of conjunctions, taste adjectives, life on the farm, lifestyles, in the same way, you will have to write short texts, according to images presented in the exam (the farm and lifetime).
4. Take into account the nutritional pyramid attached to the backup.
5. If you failed LAB, you should watch the same videos and recount the stories in your own words. Keep in mind that the teacher will ask you questions about the videos orally.
6.  If you failed READING, the teacher will give you a reading comprehension text as a habilitation activity where you will have to answer some questions according to the given text.