NEW YORK'S OWN

Fotografía tomada en el Westfield World Trade Center, New York, el día 21 de julio a las 0948hs.

"Yankee Doodle went to town,

A-Riding on a pony;

He stuck a feather in his hat,

And called it macaroni*.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up,

Yankee Doodle dandy;

Mind the music and the step,

And with the girls be handy!

Father and I went down to camp

Along with Captain Gooding

And there we saw the men and boys

As thick as hasty pudding.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up

Yankee Doodle dandy

Mind the music and the step

And with the girls be handy

There was Captain Washington

Upon a slapping stallion

A-giving orders to his men

I guess there was a million.

Yankee Doodle, keep it up

Yankee Doodle dandy

Mind the music and the step

And with the girls be handy"

Yankee Doodle

Carlos Ravazzani.-

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MEMORIAL

Fotografía tomada en el National September 11 Memorial & Museum, New York, el día 21 de julio a las 1138hs.

"A black September shadow cloaks the dawn,

The City’s once white teeth now rotting stumps,

Midst choking dusty embers ether-borne,

Its shrunken soundless heart now barely pumps.

Infernos upon retribution rise,

Fanaticism maddening the flames,

Its once imposing deities abscise,

As the faceless antagonist proclaims:

A consummation sweet but unfulfilled,

A penetrative burst without regret,

A zealous passion never to be stilled,

An earthly instinct powerful, and yet –

This bitter loathing blowing from the East,

Curtailed but could not kill the feisty beast."

Roger J. Robicheau.

Carlos Ravazzani.-

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MEMORIAL

Fotografía tomada en el National September 11 Memorial & Museum, New York, el día 20 de enero a las 1200hs.

"A black September shadow cloaks the dawn,

The City’s once white teeth now rotting stumps,

Midst choking dusty embers ether-borne,

Its shrunken soundless heart now barely pumps.

Infernos upon retribution rise,

Fanaticism maddening the flames,

Its once imposing deities abscise,

As the faceless antagonist proclaims:

A consummation sweet but unfulfilled,

A penetrative burst without regret,

A zealous passion never to be stilled,

An earthly instinct powerful, and yet –

This bitter loathing blowing from the East,

Curtailed but could not kill the feisty beast."

Roger J. Robicheau.

Carlos Ravazzani.-

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MEMORIAL 9/11

Fotografía tomada en el National September 11 Memorial & Museum, New York, el día 13 de enero a las 1017hs.

"A black September shadow cloaks the dawn,

The City’s once white teeth now rotting stumps,

Midst choking dusty embers ether-borne,

Its shrunken soundless heart now barely pumps.

Infernos upon retribution rise,

Fanaticism maddening the flames,

Its once imposing deities abscise,

As the faceless antagonist proclaims:

A consummation sweet but unfulfilled,

A penetrative burst without regret,

A zealous passion never to be stilled,

An earthly instinct powerful, and yet –

This bitter loathing blowing from the East,

Curtailed but could not kill the feisty beast."

Roger J. Robicheau

Carlos Ravazzani.-

VER PUBLICACIÓN ORIGINAL

MEMORIAL

Fotografía tomada en el National September 11 Memorial & Museum, New York, el día 13 de enero a las 1009hs.

"A black September shadow cloaks the dawn,

The City’s once white teeth now rotting stumps,

Midst choking dusty embers ether-borne,

Its shrunken soundless heart now barely pumps.

Infernos upon retribution rise,

Fanaticism maddening the flames,

Its once imposing deities abscise,

As the faceless antagonist proclaims:

A consummation sweet but unfulfilled,

A penetrative burst without regret,

A zealous passion never to be stilled,

An earthly instinct powerful, and yet –

This bitter loathing blowing from the East,

Curtailed but could not kill the feisty beast."

Roger J. Robicheau.

Carlos Ravazzani.-

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MEMORIAL

Fotografía tomada en el National September 11 Memorial & Museum, New York, el día 30 de diciembre a las 1248hs.

"En baldosas color de ceniza

pintadas con tiza

nació la rayuela.

El sillón que hamacaba a la abuela

dejaba una estela

de tarde sin prisa.

Era justo el país de la risa,

región de la infancia

que un duende inventó.

Cuando el gato brincaba en la parra

y había cigarras

solfeándole a Dios.

En la paz demorada del patio

mi vieja era un mate,

mi viejo era un tango.

Había un trompo que hacía piruetas

entre las macetas

y el muro de antaño.

Y la vida juntaba alegría

en una alcancía

de magia y niñez.

Y la vida era el hada de un cuento;

los ogros del tiempo

llegaron después.

En aquel vozarrón del abuelo

soltaba su vuelo

el ángel del vino.

Y la casa era un largo camino

de luz y de trino

bajando del cielo.

Era cosa de andar sin recelo

siguiendo los ecos

de un grillo cantor.

Porque el mundo era sólo un juguete,

feliz barrilete trepando hacia el sol."

Reynaldo Martín y Roberto Díaz

Carlos Ravazzani.-

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