Gatos buenos: los gatos buenos — Música, videos, estadísticas y fotos

Gatos buenos: los gatos buenos — Música, videos, estadísticas y fotos

Beneficios de tener un gato

  • Introducción
  • Ventajas de tener un gato
  • ¿Qué raza debo elegir?
  • ¿Debería elegir un gato adulto o un gatito?
  • ¿Debería tener un macho o una hembra?

Si has decidido adoptar o comprar un gato, tienes que tener en cuenta muchas cosas. En Purina encontrarás consejos y sugerencias para tener un nuevo gato.

Ventajas de tener un gato

No hay duda de ello, los gatos son grandes mascotas. Después de todo, ¿qué hay mejor que volver a casa al final de un duro día y escuchar el ronroneo de satisfacción de una adorable bola de pelo?

Los estudios demuestran que las personas con animales de compañía suelen estar más sanas y felices que aquellas que no los tienen, pero recuerda que tener un gato es una gran responsabilidad y un compromiso de por vida.

Cuando estés listo para asumir este compromiso, comprobarás que tener un gato ofrece ventajas como las siguientes:

  • Se ha comprobado que tener un gato reduce el estrés.
  • Normalmente los dueños de gatos tienen una tensión arterial más baja que las personas sin mascotas.
  • Puedes beneficiarte de un sistema inmunológico más fuerte y recuperarte de las enfermedades antes que las personas que no tienen animales de compañía.
  • Por lo general, los niños que crecen con gatos tienen menos días de enfermedad que aquellos que no tienen mascotas.
  • Los gatos son muy cariñosos y tienen un gran carácter, pero también valoramos su independencia, es decir, necesitan menos cuidados que otras mascotas.
  • Los gatos pueden ayudar a las personas a recuperarse más rápido de un trauma emocional, como el fallecimiento de un ser querido.

Tener un gato es muy beneficioso, pero es importante elegirlo detenidamente para estar seguro de que te adaptarás bien a tu esponjoso amigo. Tu gato ideal dependerá de tu estilo de vida y de tus preferencias personales. Por ejemplo, es posible que quieras un gato adulto al que poder acariciar en tu regazo o que tengas en mente un gatito de una raza especial.

Nuestros expertos en cuidado de mascotas recomiendan considerar lo siguiente antes de asumir el compromiso de tener un gato.

¿Qué raza debo elegir?

¿QUÉ RAZA DEBO ELEGIR?

CRUCES

RAZAS FELINAS MIXTAS

Gatos con pedigrí

Hay alrededor de 60 razas y colores diferentes de gatos con pedigrí reconocidas, es decir, tienes mucho donde elegir al comprar un gato. Los gatos con pedigrí se dividen en siete tipos:

  • Persa
  • Británico
  • Pelo semilargo
  • Birmano
  • Oriental
  • Siamés
  • Exótico

La gran ventaja de comprar un gatito o gato adulto con pedigrí es que sabrás mejor qué esperar de tu mascota. Por ejemplo, un siamés puro es probable que sea maullador, travieso y exija tu atención. Comprar un gato con pedigrí también te dará una idea del tamaño que alcanzará, de la longitud de su pelaje y de algunos de los problemas de salud frecuentes en esa raza.

Es importante recordar que, desafortunadamente, a veces puede existir consanguinidad, lo que significa que los gatos con pedigrí son más vulnerables a las enfermedades o problemas de comportamiento heredados genéticamente. Debes tener en cuenta estas cuestiones y otras características de la raza cuando decidas tener un gato.

Para más información sobre las razas con pedigrí y sobre cómo elegir un gato, echa un vistazo a nuestro seleccionador de raza.

Los cruces tienen dos padres con pedigrí, pero de diferente raza. De hecho, muchas nuevas razas con pedigrí se han creado mediante minuciosos cruces (por ejemplo, el gato tonquinés se ha creado mediante el cruce de siamés con birmano).

Aunque se realizan algunos cruces con el propósito de crear una nueva raza, la mayoría de los casos actuales son resultado de un apareamiento accidental entre una hembra con pedigrí y un macho de raza diferente a la prevista. En los gatitos nacidos de un cruce, a veces se pueden observar algunas de las características físicas y conductuales de ambas razas.

También conocidos como “gatos comunes”, estos gatos no tienen antepasados con pedigrí. Normalmente, se clasifican como «domésticos de pelo corto» o «domésticos de pelo largo”.

Si estás pensando en tener un gato de raza mixta, recuerda que no podrás saber exactamente qué tipo de gato será, ya que no tendrás información sobre las razas que componen su ADN. Por ejemplo, puede tener una personalidad más traviesa o un pelaje de diferentes características. Afortunadamente, a diferencia de los perros, los gatos no se diferencian mucho en tamaño o forma, por lo que no cabe esperar grandes sorpresas.

Por lo general, a menudo los gatos comunes tienen mejor salud que los gatos con pedigrí, ya que disponen de un mayor acervo genético y presentan menos problemas genéticos inherentes. También pueden tener una personalidad felina más completa y equilibrada. En definitiva, los gatos y gatitos comunes suelen ser más baratos y más fáciles de encontrar.

¿Debería elegir un gato adulto o un gatito?

Gatitos

A la hora de tener un gato resultará difícil resistirse al encanto de un gatito. Son esponjosos, juguetones y ofrecen la oportunidad de educarlos a tu gusto desde el principio. Al mismo tiempo, exigen mucha atención y tendrás que estar alerta, ¡sobre todo cuando sientan sed de aventuras! ¿Estás preparado para invertir el tiempo y la energía necesarios para atender las necesidades de un gatito? Si estás pensando en tener un gatito, tendrás que tener todo esto en cuenta.

Cuando elijas un gatito de una camada, busca un gatito que responda de un modo positivo (¡pero no agresivo!) a tus caricias o tu voz, así como a sus hermanos y hermanas. Un gatito que rehúye al grupo y que no muestra interés por acercarse a ti es probable que crezca siendo tímido y que no le guste que le toquen. Tener un gato que te muerda y arañe las manos repetidamente es arriesgarse a que prefiera juegos demasiados bruscos cuando crezca.

Al elegir un gatito, asegúrate de que tenga un aspecto saludable. Sus ojos deben ser brillantes y limpios; sus orejas, limpias de cera; sus uñas, lisas; y su pelaje, brillante y espeso (según la raza). Además, no debe haber signos de pulgas. Si lo compras a un criador, es posible que el gatito ya haya sido examinado por un veterinario para comprobar su buen estado de salud. Si no fuese así, pregunta si puedes hacerle una revisión antes de tomar la decisión final de llevarlo a casa.

Si ya tienes al menos un gato, elegir un gatito puede causar menos conflictos sociales que la elección de otro gato adulto. Si aún no tienes gato, pero esperas tener varios en el futuro, tener uno o dos gatitos significaría que crecerían juntos y, por lo tanto, ¡se llevarían bien! Encontrarás más información en nuestra guía sobre cómo presentar a tu gato a otras mascotas.

Gatos adultos y mayores

Los gatos adultos pueden ser también juguetones y muy cariñosos, pero hay que tener en cuenta que pueden padecer problemas emocionales, sobre todo si han tenido un difícil comienzo. Cuando lleguen a ti, su personalidad estará ya formada por completo. Intenta conseguir información previa a través del dueño del gato o del refugio para saber qué esperar y cómo ayudarle a adaptarse (hábitos con respecto a la caja de arena, preferencias alimenticias y personalidad).

Los problemas como la micción inadecuada o la agresión, especialmente a otros gatos, son menos probables en gatos adultos ya formados. Los gatos mayores también son buenos compañeros de mimos, ya que tienen menos energía que un gatito y estarán encantados de dormirse en tu regazo.

Si estás pensando en darle un nuevo hogar a un gato de un refugio, encontrarás más información en nuestra guía sobre adoptar un gato.

¿Debería tener un macho o una hembra?

Ambos, machos y hembras, son mascotas estupendas y con muy pocas diferencias de comportamiento entre sí, siempre que hayan sido esterilizados. Algunos dicen que las hembras son más cariñosas y los machos más independientes, pero puedes encontrarte con un niño de mamá o con una hembra autosuficiente. Al elegir un gato y escoger su género, hay que tener en cuenta estos consejos:

  • Por lo general, los machos son un poco más grandes que las hembras.
  • Los gatos machos sin esterilizar son más aficionados a vagabundear lejos de casa, lo que incrementa el riesgo de peleas con otros gatos o de accidentes de tráfico.
  • Además, es más probable que marquen con orina su territorio.
  • Las hembras sin esterilizar pueden ser muy ruidosas y difíciles de mantener dentro de casa cuando están en celo. Pueden quedarse embarazadas desde los cinco meses, es decir, que tu gatita puede ser mamá muy pronto.
  • Los gatos de centros de acogida deberían estar esterilizados, pero asegúrate de confirmarlo con el asesor del centro. Si necesitas más información sobre esterilización, visita nuestra página de Preguntas Frecuentes.
  • Tu elección sobre el sexo del gato debe tener en cuenta a los gatos que ya tengas. Si tienes un macho (esterilizado) sociable, una hembra joven (esterilizada) puede ser la mejor opción para ambos.
  • Por lo general, esterilizar a una hembra es más caro que esterilizar a un macho, sobre todo si está embarazada. La mayoría de los centros de adopción benéficos ya han esterilizado a los gatos antes de ofrecerlos en adopción.

Sea cual sea la decisión que tomes para elegir al gato ideal para tu familia, te queda un emocionante camino por recorrer, repleto de inolvidables vivencias con tu nuevo amigo de cuatro patas. Lee nuestra guía para hacer de tu casa un lugar acogedor para tu gato donde se sienta lo más cómodo posible.

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Atención veterinaria y castraciones gratuitas | Buenos Aires Ciudad

Desde el Gobierno de la Ciudad promovemos el respeto y el cuidado de las mascotas, brindando un servicio de castraciones y atención clínica veterinaria totalmente gratuito.

¿Por qué es importante castrar a tu mascota?

La castración es una cirugía que impide la reproducción en perros y gatos, tanto en machos como en hembras, además de prevenir enfermedades y promover una mejor calidad de vida.

Beneficios para tu mascota:

  • En hembras evita la aparición de tumores y quistes ováricos, pseudopreñez y pseudolactancia. Además, previene enfermedades del útero y de transmisión sexual.
  • Evita fugas por hembras en celo y peleas entre machos.
  • Previene ciertos problemas de comportamiento y el rociado de orina en gatos.
  • En machos evita tumores testiculares y previene patologías prostáticas, además de enfermedades de transmisión sexual.
  • Requisitos para castrar a tu mascota

    Consultá las agendas para conocer qué días y en qué puntos se darán turnos para castración, atención veterinaria o vacunación antirrábica, regístrate con tu cuenta de MiBA, seleccioná el día, completá el formulario y una vez confirmada la operación seguí las indicaciones que llegarán a tu cuenta de mail. Allí nuestros veterinarios le realizarán un examen clínico preoperatorio y, si se encuentra apta para la cirugía realizarán la castración. Recordá notificarle al veterinario si tu mascota toma alguna medicación o si tiene alguna enfermedad. También podés llevar los estudios previos que tengas. Recordá venir con tapaboca y mantener siempre la distancia social. Para cuidarnos entre todos, no se atenderá a quienes se acerquen a los centros de atención sin turno previo.

  • Tu mascota debe estar acompañada por un mayor de 18 años, que debe disponer de toda la mañana para permanecer hasta que finalice el procedimiento.
  • El día en que se realiza la cirugía, tu mascota debe estar en ayunas (12 h sin alimento y 3 h sin líquidos)
  • Tu mascota debe tener collar y correa si es un perro. Si tenés un gato, traelo en una transportadora o bolso ventilado.
  • No te olvides de traer una manta para abrigarla luego de la cirugía.
  • Además de los ocho móviles que recorren las comunas de lunes a lunes, contás con dos centros fijos de atención veterinaria y castración que funcionan uno en Villa Soldati en el Parque Indoamericano (Av. Escalada y Paseo Islas Malvinas) y el otro en Costanera Sur (Av. Dr. T. Achaval Rodriguez 1550), a 100 metros frente a la fuente de Lola Mora.

    Turnos online para castración en móviles y Centros fijos

    Si queres castrar a tu mascota en los móviles o centros fijos, ahora podés solicitar un turno de manera online. Los viernes de cada semana a las 10 h se habilitan las agendas del fin de semana y de la semana siguiente. Seguí estos pasos para hacerlo:
    1. Registrate con tu cuenta de miBA.
    2. Selecciona la opción correspondiente para pedir un turno.
    Castración de perras
    Castración de perros
    Castración de gatos
    Castración de gatas
    3. Ingresa en la opción «por fecha». Seleccioná el día y seguí las recomendaciones para presentarte con tu mascota el día del turno.
    4. Una vez confirmada la operación, te llegará un mail con toda la información que necesitas.

    Turno online para atención veterinaria

    Si queres realizarle una atención veterinaria, ahora podés solicitar un turno de manera online. Los viernes de cada semana a las 10 h se habilitan las agendas del fin de semana y de la semana siguiente. Seguí estos pasos para hacerlo:
    1. Registrate con tu cuenta de miBA.
    2. Selecciona la opción correspondiente para pedir un turno.
    Atención veterinaria
    3. Seleccioná el día y seguí las recomendaciones para presentarte con tu mascota el día del turno.
    4. Una vez confirmada la operación, te llegará un mail con toda la información que necesitas.

    Vacunación antirrábica (sin turno previo)

    Si queres vacunar a tu mascota contra la rabia, podes acercarte sin turno previo en las fechas que figuran en el cronograma, de 9 a 13 h.

    Aviso importante. Para cuidarnos entre todos, no se atenderá a quienes se acerquen a los centros de atención sin turno previo. Recordá venir con tapaboca y mantener siempre la distancia social.

    Centros fijos de atención veterinaria
    Martes 01, miércoles 02 y jueves 03 de noviembre Centro fijo de Costanera Sur (Costanera Sur) Castración
    Jueves 03 y viernes 04 de noviembre Centro fijo de Villa Soldati — Parque Indoamericano (Villa Soldati) Castración
    Martes 08, miércoles 09 y jueves 10 de noviembre Centro fijo de Costanera Sur (Costanera Sur) Castración
    Martes 08, jueves 10 y viernes 11 de noviembre Centro fijo de Villa Soldati — Parque Indoamericano (Villa Soldati) Castración
    Martes 15, miércoles 16 y jueves 17 de noviembre Centro fijo de Costanera Sur (Costanera Sur) Castración
    Jueves 17 y viernes 18 de noviembre Centro fijo de Villa Soldati — Parque Indoamericano (Villa Soldati) Castración
    Sábado 19, martes 22, miércoles 23 y jueves 24 de noviembre Centro fijo de Costanera Sur (Costanera Sur) Castración
    Miércoles 23, jueves 24 y viernes 25 de noviembre Centro fijo de Villa Soldati — Parque Indoamericano (Villa Soldati) Castración
    Sábado 26, martes 29, miércoles 30 de noviembre y jueves 01 de diciembre Centro fijo de Costanera Sur (Costanera Sur) Castración
    Miércoles 29 de noviembre, jueves 01 y viernes 02 de diciembre Centro fijo de Villa Soldati — Parque Indoamericano (Villa Soldati) Castración
    Sábado 03, martes 06 y miércoles 07 de diciembre Centro fijo de Costanera Sur (Costanera Sur) Castración
    Lunes 05 y martes 06 de diciembre Centro fijo de Villa Soldati — Parque Indoamericano (Villa Soldati) Castración
    Unidades móviles de atención veterinaria
    Martes 01 de noviembre Barrio Rodrigo Bueno (Puerto Madero) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Martes 01 de noviembre Plaza Manzana 66 (Balvanera) Castración
    Miércoles 02 de noviembre Plaza Florentino Ameghino (Parque Patricios) Castración
    Viernes 04 de noviembre La Casona de Olivera (Parque Avellaneda) Castración
    Viernes 04 de noviembre Plaza Mariano Boedo Castración
    Sábado 05 de noviembre Plaza Roque Saenz Peña (Av. Boyacá y Remedios de Escalada de San Martin, Villa Gral. Mitre) Atención veterinaria y vacunación Antirrábica
    Sábado 05 de noviembre Plaza Salaberry (Av. Juan B. Alberdi y Pilar, Mataderos) Atención veterinaria y vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 06 de noviembre Plaza Don Bosco (Av. Lope de Vega y Elpidio González, Monte Castro) Atención veterinaria y vacunación Antirrábica
    Lunes 07 de noviembre Parque de Los Patricios (Av. Caseros y Monteagudo, Parque Patricios) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Miércoles 09 de noviembre Plaza Irlanda (Caballito) Castración
    Jueves 10 de noviembre Plaza Roque Saenz Peña (Villa Gral. Mitre) Castración
    Sábado 12 de noviembre Barrio Lugano 1 y 2 (Ana Diaz y Soldado de la Frontera, Villa Lugano) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Sábado 12 de noviembre Parque Chacabuco (Emilio Mitre y Estrada, Parque Chacabuco) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 13 de noviembre Plaza Leandro Alem (Larsen y Zamudio, Villa Pueyrredón) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 13 de noviembre Plaza Félix Lima (Cuba y Arias, Núñez) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Lunes 14 de noviembre Sociedad de Fomento (Montiel 5382, Villa Riachuelo) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Martes 15 de noviembre Plaza Inmigrante de Armenia (Palermo) Castración
    Jueves 17 de noviembre Plaza Balcarce (Núñez) Castración
    Sábado 19 de noviembre Parque Leonardo Pereyra (Av. Vélez Sarsfield y Av. Iriarte, Barracas) Atención veterinaria y vacunación Antirrábica
    Sábado 19 de noviembre Plaza Ejercito de los Andes (Av. Rivadavia 10350, Villa Luro) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 20 de noviembre Plaza Alberdi (Nuñez y Machain, Saavedra) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 20 de noviembre Barrio Castex (San Pedrito 1450, Flores) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Martes 22 de noviembre Parque Centenario (Caballito) Castración
    Martes 22 de noviembre Parque de los Patricios (Parque Patricios) Castración
    Miércoles 23 de noviembre Estación Buenos Aires (Barracas) Castración
    Sábado 26 de noviembre Plazoleta Madre de la Misericordia (Av. Eva Perón y Fonrouge, Villa Lugano) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Sábado 26 de noviembre Plaza Rosario Vera Peñaloza (Av. San Juan y Chacabuco, San Telmo) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Sábado 26 de noviembre Plaza Unidad Latinoamericana (Costa Rica y Medrano, Palermo) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 27 de noviembre Plaza Colombia (Av. Montes de Oca y Brandsen, Barracas) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 27 de noviembre Plaza Nobel (Turín y Bucarest, Parque Chas) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 27 de noviembre Plaza Martín Fierro (La Rioja y Cochabamba, San Cristóbal) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Lunes 28 de noviembre Barrio Piedrabuena (2 de Abril y Av. Gral Paz, Villa Lugano) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Jueves 01 de diciembre Plaza Mariano Boedo (Boedo) Castración
    Viernes 02 de diciembre La Casona de Olivera (Parque Avellaneda) Castración
    Sábado 03 de diciembre Barrio Piedrabuena (Luisito Cuter 4000, Villa Lugano) Atención veterinaria y vacunación Antirrábica
    Sábado 03 de diciembre Club Santa Lucía (Av. Montes de Oca 1517, Barracas) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 04 de diciembre Plaza Primero de Mayo (Pasco e Hipólito Yrigoyen, Balvanera) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 04 de diciembre Plaza Tte. Gral. Pablo Ricchieri (Av. Francisco Beiró y Desaguadero, Villa Devoto) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Domingo 04 de diciembre Plaza Velez Sarsfield (Av. Avellaneda y Bahía Blanca, Floresta) Vacunación Antirrábica
    Lunes 05 de diciembre Plaza de Pompeya (Av. Sáenz y Traful, Nueva Pompeya) Vacunación Antirrábica

    Passion for Buenos Aires / School of Argentinean Tango Studio El Gato Tango

    … Learing, true Buenos Aires

    (H.L. Borhees)

    Louis Borges- One of the key figures Not only
    Argentine, but also the entire world literature of the 20th century. His work is original
    this is the work of an Argentine, it conveys the very spirit of the Argentine nation, but — together
    with this and thanks to this — it is comprehensive and open to everything. Like the Argentine
    tango is a dance that was born in Argentina, but understood and loved all over the world.

    It is this feature (and not specific works of the writer, in which, one way or
    otherwise, tango is mentioned, comprehended) — the first and most profound thing that unites
    Borges and tango.

    The second is the image of Buenos Aires. As Federico Garcia Lorca rightly pointed out,
    who visited the capital of Argentina in the early 1930s,
    “There is something extraordinarily alive in Buenos Aires
    and only to him peculiar: something full of dramatic
    beats, something that is undeniable and natural among all his
    numerous peoples; something that calls to us: Tango. In the heartbeat
    tango sounds throughout Buenos Aires.» And in the heartbeat of creativity
    Borges sounds Buenos Aires. It is noteworthy that his first published book
    was called «Passion for Buenos Aires», poems from which, among other things,
    are offered to your attention.

    Jorge Luis Borges

    From the book «Passion for Buenos Aires» (Fervor de Buenos Aires),
    1923.

    Dawn
    Deep all-encompassing night,
    which the lanterns barely contradict,
    lost breath
    alarmed the silent streets,
    like a thrilling premonition
    frightening dawn that surrounds
    abandoned suburbs of the world.
    Looking into the darkness with curiosity,
    I, frightened by the threat of dawn,
    remembered the terrifying assumption
    Schopenhauer and Berkeley,
    according to which the world is
    the result of the activity of the mind,
    vision of souls,
    without foundation, purpose and scope.
    And because ideas
    not eternal like marble,
    but immortal like a forest or a river,
    former teaching
    at dawn took on a new form,
    and the superstition of this hour,
    when the light is like a bindweed,
    going to entangle the walls with shadows,
    subjugated my mind,
    and drew this fantasy:
    all things are alien to each other essences,
    and numerous Buenos Aires —
    nothing more than a vision,
    which souls build up by magic together,
    and there is a moment,
    when his existence is in immeasurable danger,
    this trembling moment of dawn,
    when there are few who dream of the world,
    and only a few night owls keep
    ashy and barely outlined
    street image,
    what later they will think out with the rest.
    Oh, the time when the stubborn vision of life
    running in danger of disappearing,
    a time when it’s so easy for God
    ruin all your creation!

    But again the world was saved.
    The Light Flows Inventing Untidy Colors
    and with certain remorse
    due to my complicity in the revival of the day
    I ask for my house,
    amazed and chilling in the white light,
    while a bird interrupts my silence,
    when emaciated night
    remained only in the eyes of the blind.

    San Martin Square
    Macedonio Fernandez

    In search of the evening
    I wandered the streets in vain.
    The porches of the houses were already holding back the twilight.
    With the elegance of mahogany
    the evening is entirely located on the square,
    clear and spicy,
    merciful and subtle as a lamp,
    clear as a forehead,
    serious, like the gesture of a person in mourning.
    All feelings calm down
    under the grace of trees —
    jacaranda and acacia, branches
    pious whom
    soften the severity of an impossible statue,
    in whose networks
    flares up
    greatness of fires equidistant
    from the light blue of the skies and the redness of the earth.
    How good to see the evening
    from the simple rest of the benches!
    Below is
    the port yearns passionately for remote latitudes,
    and the deep square that equalizes souls,
    reveals itself as death, as a dream.

    St. Juan’s Night
    West wind, flawless in its
    magnificence,
    cut the distance with the edge of the sword.
    Tender now, like a willow, the night.
    Red sparkles
    swirls of fast fires;
    sacrificial wood,
    bleeding in high flashes of flame, —
    living flags and blind mischief.
    Peaceful darkness, as they gave;
    and the streets remember today,
    about what used to be a field.
    All night holy loneliness, praying, fingering
    their own from the stars scattered across the sky, a rosary.

    Reclaimed quarter
    Nobody saw the beauty of the streets,
    while with a terrible cry
    the greenish sky did not collapse
    into the despondency of water and darkness.
    The storm was unanimous,
    and the world was terrifying to look at.
    But only the rainbow blessed
    colors of forgiveness evening,
    and aroma of damp earth
    inspired gardens,
    we rushed to walk along the streets,
    as if on a property regained,
    and the bounty of the sun spilled in the glass of the windows,
    and in shining leaves
    summer spoke with its trembling immortality.

    Twilight
    Clear accumulation of west wind
    stirred up the street,
    open street like a spacious dream
    any accident.
    Light Grove
    loses the last bird, the last gold.
    Hard Hand of a Beggar
    exacerbates the sadness of the evening.
    Silence living in mirrors,
    broke into his prison.
    Darkness is blood
    wounded things.
    In an obscure sunset
    cripple-evening
    was only poor colors.

    Walk
    Scented, hot like mate,
    the night wild, the deaf draws closer
    and cleans the streets,
    that my loneliness is accompanied
    and what are created from the fear of vague and extended lines.
    The wind brings with it the sighs of the field,
    estates tenderness, poplars of remembrance,
    oscillating under the stillness of the asphalt
    living but chained land,
    languishing with the weight of houses.
    And, hidden at night, in vain the cat
    closed balconies worries,
    that in the evening they were
    girlish clear hopes.
    Silence reigns on every porch.
    And into concave shadows
    pour in time generous, big
    magnificent midnight clock,
    so deep,
    in which each dream finds its container,
    souls open time, which is so different
    to the greedy bounds that define
    the efforts of the day limits.
    I am the only spectator of this street;
    And if I turn my eyes away, she will die.
    (I anticipate a prickly and thick wall
    aggression restrictions
    and yet dare to shine yellow
    the light of an indecisive lantern.
    And I foresee the unsteady stars too. )
    Majestic, lively,
    like the gloomy plumage of an angel,
    whose wings cover the day,
    the night loses its simple streets.

    Suburb
    Dedicated to Guillermo de Torre

    The suburb is a reflection of our boredom.
    My steps were uneven,
    when I intended to cross the horizon,
    among the houses I found myself,
    in the squares of the collected quarters,
    both the same and different,
    as if they were all
    recollection of the repetitive monotonous
    of some single quarter.
    And unsteady tread,
    desperately hoping
    crumbled on street stones,
    and in the depths I saw
    color maps of the west wind
    and felt Buenos Aires.
    That city was what I considered my past,
    who is both my future and my present;
    the years that I spent in Europe are illusory,
    I have always been in Buenos Aires (and will be).

    Streets
    Buenos Aires Streets
    became my essence.
    Not thirsty streets,
    constrained by the crowd and bustle,
    but the broken streets of the suburbs,
    almost unnoticed out of habit,
    those suburban streets,
    deprived of piety trees,
    harsh houses dare hardly where,
    under the weight of immortal distances,
    get lost in deep vision
    plains and skies.
    For the lonely they are like a promise,
    because thousands of individual souls inhabit them,
    the only ones before time and God,
    and definitely precious.
    To the West, North and South
    they were deployed and became my homeland;
    In the verses that I sketched here, at least
    let their flags fly.


    El Sur
    To admire in one of your courtyards
    on ancient stars,
    and, sitting on a bench of darkness,
    admire
    by the scattered brilliance of these stars,
    to whom my ignorance cannot give names,
    nor mentally connect into constellations,
    And feel the water circulation
    In the secret well,
    And honeysuckle and jasmine fragrances,
    And the silence of a sleeping bird,
    Entrance arch, dampness,
    Maybe it’s all a poem.

    Saturdays
    In the sunset street a dark jewel,

    hidden by time,

    and a blind, deep city

    people who cannot see you.

    The evening is either silent or singing.

    Someone, as if from a cross, removes passions,

    nailed to the piano.

    Forever, abundance of your beauty.

    ***

    Despite your indifference,

    your beauty

    wastes its miracle in time.

    And this is happiness in you,

    like spring — in new leaves.

    And I’m almost nothing,

    only passion — and only,

    lost in this evening.

    And it is in you — delight,

    just like in swords — cruelty.

    ***

    Night lies, weighing down the window bars.

    In the harsh living room,

    , our two lonelinesses wander like blind men.

    The triumphant whiteness

    of your body is going through the evening.

    There is suffering in our love,

    similar to the soul.

    ***

    You,

    that before everything was beauty,

    you are also everything — love, from now on.

    Evening dawn
    Sunset is always exciting, disturbing,
    whether illumined or subdued,
    but more exciting, anxious
    the last one, a desperate reflection,
    what makes a plain rusty
    at the moment when the sun sinks into it.
    How difficult it is to withstand the radiance,
    delusional hallucination
    space for fear of the dark,
    and stopping suddenly,
    when we notice all the falsity of it,
    as visions crumble,
    when we realize that we are dreaming.


    Evening
    fields
    Walk the west wind like an archangel,
    dominated the road.
    Loneliness inhabited like a dream
    wrapped its sleeves around the village.
    Bells collect
    the scattered sadness of the evening. Month —
    a thin voice coming from the sky.
    At nightfall
    The village wants to become a field.
    The west wind does not heal,
    Still tormenting the evening.
    Trembling colors take shelter
    At the core of things.
    In an empty bedroom
    mirrors will close the night.

    Surroundings
    Patios and their ancient authenticity,
    patio, prisoners
    between earth and sky.
    Windows with bars,
    of which street
    looks familiar, like a lamp.
    Deep bedrooms,
    where the mahogany blazes with a calm flame,
    and a mirror with weak reflections —
    like a backwater in the dark.
    Dark Crossroads,
    emitting four endless spans
    on the outskirts of silence.
    I gave names to all places,
    where tenderness crumbled,
    and I am alone, alone with myself.

    Recoleta Cemetery
    Convinced of frailty only
    so many noble statements of dust,
    we were talking slower and quieter
    among the long rows of tombs,
    whose eloquence of darkness and marble
    promises and anticipates the desired
    dignity of death.
    Beautiful tombs,
    nude Latin and fixed fatal dates,
    unity of marble and flowers,
    and areas with patio freshness,
    and many yesterdays of history,
    today imprisoned and alone.
    We confused this peace with death
    and thought we wanted our end,
    and wished for sleep and indifference.
    Trembling in blades and in passion,
    here sleeping in ivy,
    only life exists.
    Space and time its norms,
    magic tools of the soul,
    and when she dies,
    space and time and death die with it,
    same as when the light goes out
    images disappear in mirrors,
    which the evening has already thinned.
    Blessed Shadow of the Trees,
    wind with birds whirling over the branches,
    the soul that scatters among other souls —
    it’s a miracle that someday will stop,
    inexplicable miracle,
    although its imaginary repetition is
    fills our days with fear.
    Here’s what I was thinking at Recoleta Cemetery,
    where my ashes are.

    Trophy
    Like one who, wandering along the coast,
    endowed with light and generous space,
    admiring the abundance of the sea,
    I admired your beauty
    during a long day.
    In the evening we said goodbye,
    and in growing loneliness,
    when I was returning along the street whose faces still remember you,
    my happiness faded, realizing,
    what of so many wonderful memories
    only one or two will remain,
    to become an ornament of the soul
    in the immortality of her path.

    Unknown street
    Pigeon twilight
    The Jews called the beginning of the evening,
    When the shadow does not hinder steps
    and the coming of the night is realized
    as desired, early music,
    like a calm fading.
    At this time, when the light
    takes on a sandy glow,
    I went out to an unknown street,
    outdoor noble latitude terraces
    whose cornices and walls were
    as delicate colors as the sky,
    whose depths were troubled.
    Everything is the mediocrity of houses,
    modest balustrades and doorbells,
    and perhaps girlish hopes on the balconies, entered
    into my empty heart
    with purity of tears.
    Maybe this silver evening
    could convey his tenderness to the street,
    making it real like a verse,
    forgotten and rediscovered.
    Only then did I understand
    that this street is not familiar to me,
    that every house is a candlestick,
    upon which human lives are ablaze,
    like solitary candles,
    and that our every step
    leads us to our Calvary.

    Absence

    I need to build a huge life,

    what is your mirror now:

    And every morning I need to build it again.

    Since you left,

    so many places have suddenly become unnecessary,

    meaningless, like the light of lanterns during the day.

    And the evenings that your image, like niches, covered,

    melodies that you always waited for me with,

    and the time of that word

    I will have to break with my own hands.

    In what depths will I hide my soul,

    your absence so as not to see,

    like a terrible sun that, not knowing the sunset,

    mercilessly burns, irrevocably?

    And, like a rope around my neck,

    your absence surrounds me, and the sea,

    in which eternal separation drowns.

    Park
    Channels,
    jagged mountains,
    dunes surrounded by windy roads
    and miles of storms and sand,
    that gather in the depths of the desert.
    A deserted park.
    Each tree is a selva of foliage.
    And in vain they are disturbed
    Silent Barren Hills,
    who hurry the night with its darkness
    and a sad sea of ​​unnecessary greenery.
    The whole park is a meek and quiet light,
    illuminating evening.
    A small garden is like a holiday,
    Among the poverty of the earth.

    Chubuta deposits, 1922.

    The inscription on any tomb

    I chatted brave marble

    does not violate the omnipotence of oblivion,

    carefully transferring

    name, title, event, homeland.

    All these acquired jewels remain in darkness,

    and marble will not say what people have kept silent about.

    Essence of life ended —

    trembling hope,

    the inexorable miracle of suffering and reverence for joy —

    will always remain.

    The soul blindly demands the continuation of life,

    while it is provided in the lives of others,

    while you yourself are only a mirror and reflection

    of those who did not live up to your time,

    and others will be (and are) your immortality on earth.

    From the book “The Moon Opposite” (1925)

    Farewell
    The evening that interrupted our farewell.

    The evening is sharp and delightful, and terrifying, like a dark angel.
    An evening when our lips lived in the naked proximity of kisses.

    Inevitable time spilled over the vain embrace.
    We were wasting passion together, not for us, but for the sake of loneliness, already
    close.

    Light refused us; the night came hastily.
    We were at this fence, in this weight of darkness, which was reduced by a star.

    Like one who returns from a distant meadow, I have returned from your embrace.
    As one who returns from the land of blades, I have returned from your tears.

    Living evening, lasting like a dream,
    among other evenings.

    And then I left, overtaking and leaving behind
    day trips and nights.

    Almost the Last Judgment

    My street idleness lives and is freed by the diversity of the night.

    Night is a holiday, long and lonely.

    In the secret depths of my heart I justify and praise myself: I testified
    world; I recognized the singularity of the world.

    I sang the eternal: the bright returning moon and the cheeks that I yearn for
    love.

    I glorified with verses the city that surrounds me, and the suburbs that torment
    me.

    I expressed surprise where the rest speak only familiar words.

    I was inspired by my blood ancestors and the ancestors of my dreams and
    exalted them.

    I was and I am.

    I sealed my feeling with firm words that could be dispelled by tenderness.

    The memory of an old disgrace returns to my heart. as if dead
    a horse that is washed ashore by the tide, it returns to my heart.

    But they are still on my side, no matter what, the streets and the moon.

    The water remains sweet on my lips, and the stanzas do not deny me their
    grace.

    I feel fear of beauty; who dares to judge me if this huge moon
    my loneliness forgives me?

    The last sun in the suburbs of Villa Ortuzar

    Evening like the Last Judgment.

    The street is like an open wound in the sky.

    I don’t know if the angel or the sunset was the light that lit up in the distance.

    Persistently, like a nightmare, distances weigh on me. fencing
    hurts the horizon.

    The world is like something unnecessary and abandoned.

    Day is in the sky, but the night is hidden in the ditches.

    The whole world is on these blue walls and in the excitement of the girls.

    I no longer know if this is a tree or a god peeking out from behind a rusty
    fences?

    How many countries at the same time: field, heaven, surroundings. Today I was rich
    streets and a sharp sunset and an evening like a stupor.

    Away from him, I will return to my poverty.

    Promise on the high seas

    I did not return your closeness, my homeland, but I already have your stars.

    The heavenly distance has told about them, and now masts are lost in her grace.

    They fell off the high ledges like the surprise of pigeons.

    They emerge from the patio, where the well is an overturned tower between two
    heaven.

    They emerge from a growing garden whose tumult is rising to the ground
    walls like dark water.

    They emerge from the faded twilight of the province, gentle as thickets
    shrub.

    They are immortal and passionate; their eternity cannot be measured by any city.

    In the persistence of their light, all human nights will bend like dry leaves.

    They are a clear country and somehow my land is surrounded by them.

    The course of the ship

    The sea is a countless sword and the fullness of poverty.

    The flash of flame above him is translated into anger, its source is in time, and its
    pool in pure acceptance.

    The sea is lonely as a blind man.

    The sea is an ancient language that I can no longer decipher.

    In its depths the dawn is a modest whitewashed hedge.

    At its limit, something bright appears, like a cloud of smoke.

    As impenetrable as a cut stone, the sea persists through the days.

    Every evening is the door.

    Our gaze, tormented by the sea, moves across its sky: the last white beach,
    azure clay of the evenings.

    What sweet intimacy at sunset in an unsociable sea! Light as
    holiday, clouds sparkle.

    The young moon is entangled in the mast.

    The same moon that we left under the stone arch and whose light will adorn
    and you.

    Quietly on deck, I share the evening with my sister like a piece of bread.

    Dakar
    Dakar is located at the intersection of sun, desert and sea.
    The sun closes the sky for us, sand lies in wait on the roads, and the sea
    it is hate.
    I saw some chief in whose attire there was a more burning blue than in
    burning sky.
    The mosque next to the cinema shines with the clarity of prayer. The sun’s rays are receding
    huts, the sun, like a thief, climbs the walls.
    Africa keeps its destiny in eternity, in which there are feats, idols, kingdoms,
    huge forests and swords.
    I have reached the sunset and the village.


    One western street

    You will give me someone else’s immortality, lonely street.

    You are already the shadow of my life.

    You cross my nights with the sure straightness of an overpass.

    Death — a dark and motionless storm — will move my clock away.

    Someone will gather my steps and appropriate my reverence and this star.

    (Distance, like a long wind, must torment his path).

    Washed by noble loneliness, he will place the same passion in your sky.

    Place the same passion that I am.

    I will reappear in his future amazement — to be.

    And again — in you:

    A street that opens painfully like a wound.

    Pink shop street
    Eyes are already scattered in the evening along every street
    and, as a premonition of drought, rain.

    Already all the roads are so close
    and even the road of a miracle.

    The wind carries the delayed dawn.
    Dawn is our fear of doing different things, it falls on us from above.

    All holy night I wandered,
    and her excitement leaves me
    on this street, which could have been any other.

    The safety of the plain is here again
    on the horizon,
    and wasteland scattered in bushes and wires,
    and a shop as distinct as the waxing moon last night.

    Native, like a memory, street corner
    with those elongated plinths and the promise of a patio.

    What a pleasant testimony, eternal street, because there is so little in you
    see my days!
    The light is already scratching the air.

    My years have passed along the roads of land and water,
    and only next to you I feel you, the street, harsh and pink.

    I think that suddenly your walls came up with dawn,
    a store that is so clearly visible at the end of the night.

    I think, and my voice becomes among the houses
    confession of my poverty:
    I did not look at the rivers, nor at the sea, nor at the mountains,
    but the light of Buenos Aires made friends with me,
    and I forge the verses of my life and my death in this street light.

    Street, large and patient,
    you are the only music my life knows about. Tel.0001

    «I would say tango and milonga with all my being
    express what poets of different times and peoples
    trying to express in words: faith in battle as a holiday…”
    (H. L. Borges)

    Reality turned into a dream —
    their dance. That’s why it’s even more real
    he is the dream of any and more material
    in the sacred corporeality that has become a dream
    already others looking at him,
    listening to two bodies subtle movements,
    impulses of feelings mysterious and sonorous —
    two suddenly embraced: her, him,
    silently speaking silence
    hugs about music sounding
    as if only for them.
    And their conversation is visible by the wave
    flows, both causeless and alluring,
    like a perfect verse.

    Tango is, of course, a unique phenomenon of the Argentinean
    culture. On the one hand, it has become its quintessence,
    the other, her way of being aware of herself. Maybe tango is destiny
    Argentina. And there is nothing surprising in the fact that it has become the most important topic
    Argentine literature and poetry.
    The first poem dedicated to tango was written by Ricardo Guiraldes. if you
    know the history of tango, then you remember that, before you get to the beginning of XX
    century to Europe, where it was ennobled, it was the dance of the city outskirts
    Buenos Aires, which was danced by sailors, workers and bandits with women
    easy behavior in brothels (such a sensual dance was just
    impossible and unacceptable in the upper strata of society). However, the fame of tango grew, and
    Argentines went to Europe to popularize tango, and it really
    was to the taste of the Europeans, in turn, then returned it to Argentina in
    refined form. One of these popularizers was the Argentine poet and
    writer Ricardo Guiraldes, author of the famous novel Don Segundo
    Sombra, at 1910, who organized tango performances in Parisian
    salons. There, in Paris, Guiraldes wrote a poem in which
    a vivid image of the dance that originated in the outskirts of Buenos Aires at the end of the 19th
    century.

    Tango

    Tango is severe and sad.
    Tango threat.
    Tango, in which every note falls, is heavy, and, as if in desperation, lowers
    a hand accustomed to gripping a knife handle.
    The tango is tragic, the melody of which sounds like a struggle.
    A slow rhythm, a complex harmony of warring obstacles.
    A dance that inspires dizzy excitement in souls clouded with alcohol.
    Creator of silently gliding silhouettes that weaken the hypnotic effect
    bleeding sleep.
    Hats tilted over mocking grimaces.
    The imperious love of a tyrant, jealously guarding his dominant will.
    Enthusiastic women, subdued, like obedient animals.
    A complex mockery of violence.
    Brothel breath. The air that smells of raw beauty and a man in sweat
    struggle.
    Premonition of a sudden explosion of screams and threats that will end in muffled
    groan, spilled human blood, as if the last protest of a useless
    anger.
    Red blotch clotting in black.
    Tango is fatal, arrogant and rude.
    Notes are tormented, slowly, on detuned keys.
    Tango is harsh and sad.
    Tango threat.
    Dance of love and death.


    As a theme, the life of the outskirts of Buenos Aires was introduced into Argentine literature a little earlier.
    poet Evaristo Carriego, standing at the origins of tango poetry. He himself did not write lyrics
    for tango, but he was the first to poeticize the life of poor neighborhoods
    Buenos Aires, where this dance originated. Carriego’s poems inspired and
    authors of texts for tango (they both developed its themes, images, and
    used direct quotations from his works), and composers: dedicated to the poet
    Eduardo Rovira’s famous tango «A Evaristo Carriego»
    (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3N7MhkhlWBs).

    Carriego poet of nostalgia, perhaps the main feeling, a red thread
    connecting everything related to tango.


    The road to the house

    You are familiar to us, like the thing that ours
    was that only belonged to us,
    familiar with streets and trees
    at the edge of the sidewalks,
    restless joy of boys,
    and faces of friends,
    personal stories, in area
    by word of mouth transmitted,
    and the monotony of dreary songs
    organ grinder: his
    our neighbor likes to listen ta,
    with sad eyes.
    We love you
    as before, all with the same quiet tenderness,
    road to our house! See
    with what tenderness we love you!
    All that,
    that memory awakens in us.
    And it seems that the stones are
    yours are guarded like a secret,
    habitual rumble of steps,
    becoming more and more muffled, of all those
    whom we will not hear at that hour,
    when we return again.
    Road
    home, you are like
    beloved face,
    that kissed so many times:
    Oh how we know you!
    We are on the same street every evening
    admiring calmly
    all the same sad or cheerful scene,
    and by the same people. that girl
    pensive and modest that so long
    humbly waiting for a friend and will not wait!
    Sometimes new faces are noticeable,
    serious or with a kind smile,
    what they look at us, passing by.
    And disappearing into silence
    over time other persons
    those from the region and from life who
    leaves without saying goodbye.
    Passers-by,
    that will never give us peace!
    Just think that we once
    let’s leave like this, but in our own way,
    where — who knows? just like them
    they left silently.

    The book about this poet (Evaristo Carriego, 1930) was written by the great
    Jorge Luis Borges, and as a result he got a book about tango. Not without
    influenced by Carriego’s poetry, Borges wrote his first book of poems Passion for
    Buenos Aires (1923), the central image of which, like Carriego’s poems,
    image of the suburbs of Buenos Aires.

    Suburb

    Suburb is a reflection of our boredom.
    My steps were uneven,
    when I intended to cross the horizon,
    among the houses I found myself,
    in the squares of the collected quarters,
    both the same and different,
    as if they were all
    recollection of the repetitive monotonous
    of some single quarter.
    And unsteady tread,
    desperately hoping
    crumbled on street stones,
    and in the depths I saw
    color maps of the west wind
    and felt Buenos Aires.
    That city was what I considered my past,
    who is both my future and my present;
    the years that I spent in Europe are illusory,
    I have always been (and will always be) in Buenos Aires.

    Borges turned to tango throughout his life,
    thought about him. In the story The Man from the Pink Café he describes
    sensations of the dancers: A girlfriend in dancing got me a sensitive guessed each
    my movement. Tango did whatever it wanted with us, and spurred, and intoxicated,
    and led after itself, and again gave to each other. Everyone forgot in the dances, as in
    some dream, but it suddenly seemed to me that the music sounded louder, this is for her
    added the sounds of guitars from the van, which rolled closer. Here the wind brought
    the strumming subsided, and I again obeyed my own body, and the body of my girlfriend,
    and the dictates of the dance.
    In the 1960s, Borges collaborated with Astor Piazzolla, who wrote music for his
    poetry.

    Someone is talking to the tango

    The danced tango
    Yellow sunset rays
    Illuminated, those who know
    Another dance is with knives.

    Tango of this Maldonado,
    where there is less water than dirt,
    tango after whistling
    crew flying home.

    Carefree and unrestrained,
    you look straight ahead.
    Tango, courage for men
    and expressing will stubbornly.

    Tango that was like me,
    just like me, happy,
    so my memory tells me,
    but it becomes silent.

    From this evening how much is
    dreams will happen to two!
    Separation and regret
    love and not be loved.

    I will die, and you will continue
    beautify our lives.
    Buenos Aires will not forget you, oh tango,
    which was and will be.
    (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5TrN2DGOEQ)

    In 1965 Borges’ poetry collection For
    six strings, in which the poet refers to the origins of the tango, to its predecessor
    a milonga song sung by gauchos with guitar accompaniment.

    Milonga about Jacinto Chiclana

    In Balvanera, I remember once
    I got into consciousness
    one name; in the night they spoke
    about Jacinto Chiclana.

    They talked about a street fight,
    about knives, but hid
    street time, fight, sparkle
    those knives — all that was.

    Who would have known why this name is
    as if they follow me everywhere!
    Oh, to know, to know
    who he was, what kind of life he lived.

    I see him as stately, tall,
    silent, ready
    risk yourself without hesitation
    and cold-blooded in battle.

    No, no one is ever more fearless
    did not walk on land without rights.
    Neither in love nor in war is there
    there will never be an equal.

    Towers rise Balvaneras
    over gardens, courtyards,
    and this accidental death is here,
    with their knives.

    I don’t see details, but I see
    in yellow lamplight
    clash of people with shadows,
    knife-snake with its insidious sting.

    And possibly at the same time
    how I felt a new wound,
    he thought: a man shouldn’t
    try to slow down death by deceit.

    God alone knows,
    Was Jacinto like this or different.
    And now, gentlemen, I sing to you,
    only about what brings us a name.

    About one, about one in the world
    there should never be regrets —
    that he was brave, was not afraid
    never any battles.

    And courage is always worthy,
    and with hope to live is more desirable.
    That’s why I sing you a milonga
    about Jacinto Chiclana.

    (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SU9CIZNcz−8)

    Tango, according to Borges, is an expression of self-consciousness
    Argentines. In one of Oscar Wilde’s dialogues, it is said that music gives
    us our own past, which we had not suspected until now,
    making you regret losses that were not there, and misdeeds that did not
    guilty. I can say about myself that I can’t listen to Marne or Don Juan,
    in all details without remembering the apocryphal past with its equanimity
    and passion, in which I myself challenge and fight with an unknown enemy,
    to fall without a single word in an unknown knife fight. Maybe in this
    and the purpose of the tango is to inspire the Argentines to believe in their former courage, in
    that one day they found the strength not to deviate from the demands of valor and
    honor (from the book Evaristo Carriego, translated by B. Dubin).

    Where are you now? — about those who are gone,
    Sadness is trying, as if
    There is an area of ​​the world where one minute is
    It contains all ends and all beginnings.

    Where (I repeat) those apostles of courage,
    Whose prowess along the dead ends of the outskirts
    And suburbs was once soldered
    A union of desperation and courage?

    Where are the daredevils whose era has passed,
    Who on weekdays — a fairy tale, in the epic — episode
    Entered who did not chase income
    And in passion did not draw a dagger?

    Only myth is the last coal in this gray
    The ashes of time — will still remind you in reality
    Foggy rose with a dashing frame,
    Groze Corrales or Balvanera.

    Where in lanes and corners beyond
    Desolation guards the earth
    The one who passed and who remained a shadow —
    Blade of Palermo, gloomy Muranya?

    Where is the fatal Iberra (whose generosity
    Churches do not forget), which brother
    Killed because Nyato had victims
    One more, and equalized two scores?

    The mythology of daggers is gone.
    Forgetfulness clouds faces.
    The song of deeds withers and tries,
    Becoming the property of detective annals.

    But there is another fire, another rose,
    Whose coals are still being burned today
    Those damn unsatisfied pride
    And those knives as a silent threat.

    Enemy’s knife or other steel —
    For years — you are dispassionately exposed,
    But, neither years nor death are subject,
    Those who have become dust will abide in the tango.

    They are now in tune, in careless
    Unyielding Guitar Chords,
    Whose strings from a simple old milonga
    Weave the feast of the valiant and blameless.

    Lions and carousel horses are spinning,
    And I see a shabby deck
    And couples, under Arolas and Greco
    Dancing tango on the panel

    In a moment that is spellbound from destruction
    And rises like a rock above the void,
    Beyond past and future standing
    Witness of death and resurrection.

    Everything that is dilapidated is fresh in chords:
    Yard and gazebo in vine leaves.
    (Behind every watchful fence —
    An ambush with a guitar and a dagger.)

    This is demonism, this frenzy
    With disastrous days only firmly.
    Made of Time and Ashes,
    We yield to a runaway cantilena:

    She is only time. Weaves with her together
    Mirage world, which is more everyday:
    Unfulfillable dream about the fight of the ancient
    And our death in the dead end of the suburbs.

    (Translated by B. Dubin)


    But, at the same time, tango reveals not only the soul of an entire nation, but also of each
    individual, the tango always addresses each one individually:

    A sonnet about the tango sounded at dusk

    Who expressed everything in this old tango,
    whose sweetness long stopped
    me by humble, small balconies
    not your flourishing quarter?

    Hearing his anguish, I imagined
    that yard that I saw in one suburb,
    when it was lit up by the sunset.
    Like never before, at that moment I loved you.

    And, clinging to the music, I am under the moon
    under the heart of the street, motionless froze,
    and the wind, chasing the night, rushed.

    And the eternal tango beckoned me.
    To new constellations. At the risk of being yourself.
    To the memory of what I’m looking for with my eyes.

    (H.L. Borges)

    Memory

    O mountains of Cordoba! So far
    I remember everything: peace and idleness of the soul,
    mint bloom, days monotony,
    and the sky is a dazzling expanse.

    Mimosa aroma wandered in the blood …
    Crashed into pairs in the evening,
    we listened like guitar strings
    tango spoke to us about love.

    We were young then… Over us
    the chain of mountains floated like camel humps.
    From long walks in the twilight hour

    we returned with songs and laughter:
    the spring air answered us with an echo
    and the young disk of the moon looked at us.

    (Alfonsina Storni, translated by Inna Chezhegova)

    Tango dialogue between a man and a woman. And if a male voice that sounds
    in tango, can be found in the poetry of Borges, then the female voice of tango is, in that
    including the voice of Alfonsina Storni. She did not write lyrics for songs and
    romances, but, of course, her poetry influenced the poetry of tango, those
    texts that were composed on behalf of women. Her voice is passionate and gentle, quiet and
    piercing, sad and sometimes ironic, was one of the most
    significant in Argentine literature of the first half of the 20th century.

    Lost tenderness

    If from my fingers causeless tenderness
    suddenly fly off, if from my fingers … then hers,
    this tenderness lost, with a breath
    this aimless tenderness, who will pick it up?

    I could love this night endlessly,
    I would fall in love with the first person I meet, but —
    nobody. Lonely blooming trails.
    The wind carries tenderness farther and farther. ..

    If your eyes suddenly kiss, traveler,
    this night, and in the breath of the branches oblivion,
    if your fingers suddenly hand fleetingly
    suddenly takes and releases, squeezes, disappears,

    If that hand, you won’t see those lips,
    kiss if the wind is a vision and that’s it,
    you, oh traveler, whose eyes are as deep as the sky,
    Do you recognize the flight of my tenderness in it?

    Poems to the sorrow of Buenos Aires

    Straight streets that are gray and dull,
    where the sky is often visible, as from behind a fence,
    and their asphalt, and their gloomy facades
    My spring dreams have been robbed.

    How much am I not seeing who is coming towards me,
    I wandered through them — like through a cloudy dungeon.
    Their monotony makes my soul languish.
    And — «Alfonsina!» — don’t call. I will not reply.

    Buenos Aires, if I die in autumn,
    when you captivate the sky blue good,
    a heavy tombstone will not surprise me.

    I was already buried while I was
    wandered the streets half dead
    the river connected with water shot.


    Buenos Aires is always tango, which Federico Garcia felt very sensitively
    Lorca, who visited this city in the golden age of tango: “In Buenos Aires there are
    something extraordinarily alive and peculiar to him alone: ​​something full of
    dramatic beat, something that is undeniable and natural among all his
    numerous peoples; something that calls to us: Tango. In the heartbeat of everything
    Buenos Aires sounds like a tango.”
    Julio Cortazar, another famous Argentine known in our
    country as a novelist and short story writer, also could not help but turn in his
    creativity to tango, and in 1980 the album of Juan Cedron was released
    Sidewalks of Buenos Aires, composed by Edgardo Canton and
    texts Cortazar. And the circle closes Cortazar, who lived mainly in
    Paris, wrote about his longing for Buenos Aires, the city in which he spent
    Childhood and youth. As in the poems of Evaristo Carriego, they are full of nostalgia:

    Southern Cross

    You are looking at the Southern Cross
    and breathe in the summer smelling of peaches,
    and walking into the night, my little silent vision,
    this Buenos Aires, this always the same Buenos Aires.
    I miss Southern Cross,
    when I have to raise my head because of thirst,
    to drink your black wine, midnight.
    And I miss the sleepy shops on the street corners,
    where is the smell of grass
    flutters on the skin of the air.
    I miss your voice,
    on our walks around this city.
    Understanding that it will always be there somewhere,
    as if in a bag in which every moment
    hand looking for coin, comb, keys,
    Relentless Hand of Dark Memory,
    that counts their deaths.
    Southern Cross, bitter mate,
    and voices of friends,
    erased along with others.
    I’m hurt by this bitter time
    full of dogs and misfortunes,
    caught the belief that the return is in vain.

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