...
the next stop...
Dedicated to:
Francis Ford Coppola.
Un Cineasta
norteamericano
de Aquéllos!!!
A Friend.
Un Amigo.
Francis Ford Coppola & Julio Díaz Rivero. Detrás, y de pie, otro amigo colifato: Trínity.
introducción.
¿Cuál será
la próxima estación?...
...
..
.
"The next stop..."
"...lapróximaestación..."
...
..
.
theNextStop.
"Otoño...
en Buenos Aires...
Abril...
Tiempo de nostalgia.
Las hojas
más débiles
caen del árbol,
y el viento...
tan sólo
las Arrastra...
las Amontona...
...
las plegarias
se elevan
Al Cielo,
junto con las Miradas...
...
Quién sábe ?
en Qué costado
del Camino,
uno se encuentra
con la Mirada
del Otro ?...
...
y entonces...
uno se pregunta:
¿Cuál es?...
la próxima estación ?...
...
..
.
Años
Atrás...
Había respuestas
Cargadas
De
Contundencia:
"...the next stop
is Vietnam!".
"...la próxima parada
es...
Vietnam!".
...
...y las agujas
del reloj,
borraron
tus pasos...
Qué inevitable Callejón!
El Tiempo
Avanza
para
Adelante,
y tus recuerdos
tus pasos . . .
Van
para
Atrás...
Como las flores del ocaso...
Como las mariposas del estío...
Como los audaces caracolitos
intentando sobrevivir
sobre la húmeda hojarasca,
en un día de lluvia...
...
..
.
Pero,
como Diría José,
un poeta Colifato:
"...el Tiempo...
está en cortocircuito...
nosotros,
lo mejoramos..."
...
..
.
y es...
Que el Tiempo...
la Vida...
FLUYE!
El Tiempo no para.
Por eso.
John Barleycorn...
Debe Morir...
Para
Que la Cebada
Vuelva A Nacer.
A Crecer.
y convertirse,
en el Mejor Whiskey Escocés!
The Best Scotch Whiskey!!!".
epílogo.
"Quién Besa
la joya...
Cuando ésta
cruza
su Camino
Víve
en el Amanecer,
en la Hora Azúl...
de la eternidad..."
...
..
.
Música Destacada:
"Can't Find My Way Home".♫
No Puedo Encontrar El Camino A Casa.♫
De: Stevie Winwood.♫
Por...
..."Stevie Winwood".♫
Uno
De los Mejores
Compositores y
Músicos
Del Planeta Tierra!!!
♫♫♫
♫♫
♫
En Vívo!
live!
in your home!,
in GloucesterShire,
England.
Letra Original:
Come down off your throne and leave your body alone - somebody must change
You are the reason I've been waiting so long - somebody holds the key
Well, I'm near the end and I just ain't got the time
And I'm wasted and I can't find my way home
Come down on your own and leave your body alone - somebody must change
You are the reason I've been waiting all these years - somebody holds the key
Well, I'm near the end and I just ain't got the time
And I'm wasted and I can't find my way home
chau.
hasta luego.
hasta la próxima estación.
el Beat.♫
...desde algún rincón...
...oculto...
...del bosque...
...♫
...donde se refugian...
...los sueños...
...
..
.
♫
y Aquí...
la frutilla
del postre...
"John Barleycorn (Must Die)".♫
by "Traffic".♫
live!
in Santa Mónica,
California,
Estados Unidos,
1972.
Con Steve Winwood,
en guitarra acústica y voz,
Jim Capaldi, en voz y pandereta, y
Chris Wood, en flauta traversa♫...
o sea...
"corazón & esencia"
de "Traffic".♫
Música Destacada:
"John BarleyCorn Debe Morir".♫
Antigüa Balada
del Folk Inglés,
por Traffic.♫
Una Banda de Rock Británica,
De la recontra Hostia!
♫♫♫
♫♫
♫
Letra Original:
There were three men came out of the west, their fortunes for to try
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn must die
They've plowed, they've sown, they've harrowed him in
Threw clods upon his head
And these three men made a solemn vow
John Barleycorn was dead
They've let him lie for a very long time, 'til the rains from heaven did fall
And little Sir John sprung up his head and so amazed them all
They've let him stand 'til Midsummer's Day 'til he looked both pale and wan
And little Sir John's grown a long long beard and so become a man
They've hired men with their scythes so sharp to cut him off at the knee
They've rolled him and tied him by the way, serving him most barbarously
They've hired men with their sharp pitchforks who've pricked him to the heart
And the loader he has served him worse than that
For he's bound him to the cart
They've wheeled him around and around a field 'til they came onto a pond
And there they made a solemn oath on poor John Barleycorn
They've hired men with their crabtree sticks to cut him skin from bone
And the miller he has served him worse than that
For he's ground him between two stones
And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl and his brandy in the glass
And little Sir John and the nut brown bowl proved the strongest man at last
The huntsman he can't hunt the fox nor so loudly to blow his horn
And the tinker he can't mend kettle or pots without a little barleycorn
