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PAIN AND REDEMPTION

"My God, my God,

Why hast thou forsaken me?"

Tell God what it means to be human? from the infant's crying moan climax, dying everyday sense, with both hands,

Man soils seem mundane creature emerging, cursed land,
no one seeding, or by waiting What to do with this race troubled?

remember the cross, Jesus of Nazareth, that you did not choose, assumes, not joy, but with the peace that came from heaven into their mysteries.
Obedient, submissive servant of your father after thrill, you gave freely quiet cup of bitter pain running your recent sediments.
human conspiracy facts did not fall on you, did you know you the plot earth but not because your father appointed him to bright light and you Nazareno, carry your cross with love.


Christ I now understand my firm friend question, basic human
What to do with the searing pain and scorching hot human suffering?

Suffering is overcome with regret, resisting or defeating it, it is assumed understanding that absolute freedom is not only carrying a cross with love but thank aware that human suffering takes work jointly to this momentous task the redemption of mankind our belief in the sacrifice of Jesus with wisdom that comes from God.
Christ author of my life
death winner
that far forward without
incomparable pain my death
annihilated
and my measure redeemed
am grateful for so much love
my blessed Redeemer.

Lucy Martinez Zuzunaga

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A first prize (published)

have already published the story in "The Dialogue of the dogs," I leave the link.

http://web.elcoloquiodelosperros.es/

The story is called "The terrifying called"


May, the month in which this blog is a year has brought a good thing (all not going to be bad), yesterday told me that a story that had sent the contest organized by "The Cultural Association The Dialogue of the Dogs" in the city of Cordoba, under the slogan: "Música, maestro", has been selected by the jury as winner.

As emprenderéis'm at the stage of "I still can not believe it," I hope that you, the followers of this blog, and who pass occasionally rejoice with me.

promise to give you more information when you collect the prize, and if you publish on your Web site, put a link so you can read it.

Greetings to all.

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POET AY! NO MORE

AY POET - (CLIK - Vocals and lyrics of Lucy Martinez)

blur in your notebook

fleeting youth, there is no time

and painting your dream surf

invented paper boat

clinging to the helm of your passions.

Question of skins, masquerades?

and you, oh poet escaped your reasons,

you venture into the sea, blindly,

maker believed to be constant

your own inconsistencies ,

of those four seasons

sunless no flowers, no leaves or yellow snow

Oh poet, anchored at dawn Where?

What port bay find yourself?

arrive "your kisses in passing mouths?

you be the eternal bohemian in the shadows?

poet ay!, Your letters of goblins mysterious

blue devils, angels without wings,

slowly lost in this world

you no longer belong.

no longer shines on your beaches that lighthouse,

your spell of the poet in the brittle glass

from your mistakes, no says nothing,

your shadow is idolized here ..

poet ay! lonely lonely lonely,

sheets tainted by your dreams,

ravings of eventual lover

of broken promises ...

Ay

poet

proclaim yourself executioner of yourself!

Lucy Martinez Z.

Peru February, 2005
© Copyright 2005 - 2006LUMAR © Copyright

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debt

May has come with its flowers, and with it this blog's first birthday. The first thing I wrote was: "This blog is a result of the insistence of those who eventually tired of hearing me and do not read me."

Well, to celebrate the first anniversary I leave with a story, a bit longer than you are used routinely to read me. If you have patience and arrive at the end you will receive my thanks, and if it comentaís, thanks are endless.

debt

The day had been stressful. He missed the warmth of home and relax with a refreshing shower, a glass of liquor splendid and a good book, but the subway ride seemed interminable. When I reached my stop and went outside, took a deep breath the polluted air of the city, which seemed to me pure and refreshing.

At home I checked, as I do out of habit, the mailbox. Was filled with advertisements, receipts and an envelope with no return address caught my attention by the gothic font used to write my name. My first reaction was to open that envelope, but the appearance of some neighbors and their conversation made me give up.

Once settled, I picked up the contents of the mailbox that was almost forgotten in the furniture of the hall along with the keys. I went back to hold in your hand the damn envelope. The paper was of a strange, thick and rough. I admired the written word, apparently with a pen. I thought, "Who in this day and age can use a pen?".

imagined the author choosing among several, the quill pen properly, with the thickness just enough to retain the bevel tip necessary and ink to write, at least one or two whole words. I thought it would be someone who knew the lyrics Gothic and technique to draw it. The ink used is not the usual seemed to be bought at a stationery store was ocher and every word was topped with a twist, as a point that did not light reading.

I read my first and last name, no more, no address or anything to indicate which person sent it. However, wearing a postmark on the top, the kind that are stamped on the letters without a seal. The seal! Had not fallen into that detail. He was not wearing any, at least hit, but I had drawn with great care, with the same ink and strokes.

I turned and went back to check that did not include any return address that could show the origin of the letter. I also drew attention to the type of closure used on the envelope. I saw traces of a glue that initially seemed pasta, such as those used by artists falleros. A mixture of flour and water.

was so fascinated with the envelope that I did not rip an inch of that role, so I got hired on with the knife. When I got open, took out the writing paper: it was the same material as the envelope. But my amazement did not end there.

I was shocked when seeing, with excellent penmanship, the beginning of this letter: "Valencia, 4 May the year of our Lord 1810. Your Grace, when live read this letter, I wish, in Grace with God and in the coming years, this humble servant who has trouble calculating ... "

A strange sensation that caused him to stop quickly and its contents on top the low table before him. Gazing intently and I got a thousand questions, who, how, when, why? Catch her again with the intention of clarifying all doubts.

took me a while to get used to the letter but I managed to find out its contents. Apparently one Don Alfredo Garcia Castellnovo and had a debt to an ancestor of mine who could not repay because it's sudden death at the hands of some natives of Brazil. Tried to find someone in your family without success, and being a man of his word, ordered his law firm after several generations is given, this letter, the first live offspring reachable, and you repay the debt.

The next morning, without sleeping, I moved to the center of the city where an antique, a lifelong friend, had his business. Was fascinated to examine the envelope in the back. He said that this role was original, not manufactured from eighty years, and the pasta was stuck with the tab was a mixture of flour and water in proper proportion to serve as an adhesive.

The post office, after giving many kicks and buy lottery for retirees, I indicated that according to the postal registration had sent the letter a law firm. With the left hand direction in which I prepared to clarify the meaning of it all.

The feeling of receiving an inheritance that would end all economic ills by passing, flooded my heart and my mind. I went in a taxi to the address the post office, previously had announced my visit in advance through the phone. The place was in the outskirts of the city.

The decoration of the buffet was splendid, stately, sober yet elegant. I was shown into a spacious office where strangely the only furniture were a few shelves on the walls. A nice lady told me that soon I would attend.

The first thrust pierced my side. The burning of the sting out of air left me and made me bend over holding my wound. The gunman, accompanied by two people, looked to be about my age and I talked to collect debt in the same way I would have done his ancestor. The second, fast and accurate, I sectioned the heart, and before the steel foil, leave my body, I could clearly see the satisfaction of my killer.