reflexes I homeland 
I been reading some articles George Steiner to refine my masters project. His essays, samples of clarity and intelligence is no waste anywhere, texts whose main foundation is courtesy humanist, even those with whom one may not agree with courtesy, good nature (what a beautiful word so unusual) of give us the tools to cope. Steiner is at the same time, the guard and the objector of his ideas, Europe, books, literature, high culture, Heidegger, de Maistre ... This is the humility of humanism, to know that anyone can respond and listening with respect, this is also the courage of the humanist, sitting in front of the opponent, the student, who that is, with really bright eyes, ready to educate, to close, with love for the Other and the Word, with an irony so fine that betrays a love for the Word, not contempt for the listener ... Reading
Steiner project ideas come to me, long projects that
could devote a lifetime of careful search. Many ideas come to mind, many I land it, others simply ignore them because life is never enough. Many projects, many want to read, to read the world, reading life.
While I still think, I present a poem by the great Colombian poet William Ospina. In its way, the poem has to do with some ideas that are around, surround redound my head.
All life is a journey, all life is a book, a lifetime in a verse and a verse from the air that gives life.
"Where they burn books today, tomorrow will burn human beings"
H. Heine
FRANZ KAFKA Father, I say, give me three grains of barley to wake the sleeper.
But my father did not respond;
is a huge bronze rider, high on hills and synagogues.
Mother, I say, away so much fog,
show me a sweet face, which sprout naïve words.
But she lost in the alleys of stone and only find in their ojosi nmensos mirror.
Grandpa, tell By then, most do not fight with the angel, come tell stories with lfuego, while freezes the Elbe.
But the old man looks at me with eyes absent, and understand that my grandfather is but an old gypsy who wants to sell me a memory.
sister, beautiful sister, I say, take my hand
pscuro in this house is huge.
But to me goes a Polish countess
monumental and arrogant and you hear a violin, and closes a door.
Brother, I say, what a fine ride the horse of wood and lacquer,
where do we take these evenings uncertain?
But he is just an image, a gray picture in my hands, and far
, atrocious, cannons resonate.
Goethe, I say, sing me a song Roman
make me feel in my heart this ancient sadness.
But the tomb is silent and gray doves flying over it and I can not open this book because the pages are of ash. Millennium
I say then, maybe you can finally save me, tell me
sot of flesh and blood, that what torments me is a desire.
But she loved afantasma thousands of emaciated and barely perceive two flames that far off.
So is all this madness? Who I can call to save me?
His kingdom is of this world. All are accepted and cleared.
are human too, are very tight, and not
managed to talk to my sound of elytra,
and never learned to cross the gates, and I can not defend
.
If you see two gray eyes on the night of Prague Gothic
understand that I am afraid to die if I fall asleep.
If you hear a song on the night of Prague Gothic
understand Quei ntento know where I stand.
If you hear a heart on the night of Prague Gothic
understand who holds the whole dream.
