We and They

Father and Mother, and Me,

Sister and Auntie say

All the people like us are We,

And every one else is They.

And They live over the sea,

While We live over the way,

But-would you believe it? – They look upon We

As only a sort of They!


We eat pork and beef

With cow-horn-handled knives.

They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,

Are horrified out of Their lives;

While they who live up a tree,

And feast on grubs and clay,

(Isn’t it scandalous? ) look upon We

As a simply disgusting They!


We shoot birds with a gun.

They stick lions with spears.

Their full-dress is un-.

We dress up to Our ears.

They like Their friends for tea.

We like Our friends to stay;

And, after all that, They look upon We

As an utterly ignorant They!


We eat kitcheny food.

We have doors that latch.

They drink milk or blood,

Under an open thatch.

We have Doctors to fee.

They have Wizards to pay.

And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We

As a quite impossible They!


All good people agree,

And all good people say,

All nice people, like Us, are We

And every one else is They:

But if you cross over the sea,

Instead of over the way,

You may end by (think of it!) looking on We

As only a sort of They!


Joseph Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Alberto Caeiro’s way

A. Caeiro’s way

The invisible hand of the wind

skirts over the grasses

When it lets go,

jumping between the green intervals

crimson poppies

yellow daisies together

and some other blue flowers

that you couldn’t see straightaway


I don’t have whom to love

nor life that I want

nor death that I steal

Through me

like through the grasses

a wind that only bends them

to let them be what they were


Also through me

a desire uselessly blows

the stems of my intentions

the flowers of what I imagine

and everything turns to what it was

with nothing that takes place.


Non-official translation from the original in Portuguese: “A mão invisível do vento…(À la manière de A. Caeiro)”, Ricardo Reis (Fernando Pessoa, 1888-1935).

If you want to read the Spanish version of this poem, follow this link:



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Poem in Hindi translated into English* and Spanish** – Poema en Hindi traducido al inglés* y al español**


Abhishek Kiran Dani




Again, after another journey, I am standing on the same door

with restlessness: Should I go in or out, another world to explore?

I am afraid to approach the bright light that is ahead

in the familiar darkness inside, now I feel, I can rest my head.


De nuevo, después de otro viaje, estoy de pie frente a la misma puerta

con inquietud: ¿Debo entrar o salir, otro mundo por descubrir?

Tengo miedo de acercarme a la luz brillante que me espera

en la oscuridad familiar de adentro, siento ahora, puedo descansar mi cabeza.


*In the attached image you can see how the original poem in Hindi looks like. I would like to express my immense gratitude to Abhishek Kiran Dani (Abhi), the talented author of this poem. Abhi kindly helped me to translate his work into words that people from many places could understand.

Although it is impossible to translate the visual beauty of this unique poem, I hope these words can help you to nourish your powerful imagination.


**En la imagen adjunta puedes ver cómo se ve el poema original en Hindi. Estoy inmensamente agradecido con el talentoso autor de este poema, Abhishek Kiran Dani (Abhi), por ayudarme a traducir su trabajo en palabras que personas de muchos lugares pueden entender.

Aunque es imposible traducir la belleza visual de este poema único, espero que estas palabras te ayuden a alimentar tu poderosa imaginación.


El Matallana

Sea of November


A sea of mercury in Malta
and the wind moves bluish greys:

My life is like a memory,
I don’t know where my past has gone,
not much of my future is left

I’ve never been too safe,
I’ve never known what I’ve done,
neither the old love never fading
nor the new love now lurking

There is no time in my life
but there is life in my time
the lively waves of this day
ignore the dead ones from yesterday.

El Matallana

Mar de noviembre


Un mar de mercurio en Malta
y el viento mueve grises azulados:

Mi vida parece un recuerdo,
no sé a dónde ha ido mi pasado,
queda poco hoy de mi futuro

Nunca he estado muy seguro,
nunca he sabido lo que he hecho,
ni aquel amor nunca olvidado
ni este nuevo ya al acecho

Pasa veloz el tiempo en mi vida
pero hay mucha vida en mi tiempo,
las vivas olas de este día
ignoran las de ayer que han muerto.

El Matallana

Pupila mortal – Mortal pupil



No es el lugar

soy yo y mis múltiples duelos

mis agazapados, sordos deseos

y el más oscuro anhelo

del abismo más allá de nuestros cuerpos

en la pupila mortal que observa el miedo

o la oscuridad voraz que engulle el tiempo.


It is not the place

it is me and my multiple griefs

my crouching, deaf desires

and the most obscure longing

for the abyss beyond our bodies

in the mortal pupil observing fear

or the voracious darkness swallowing time.


El Matallana

Our kiss



I know they also told you

about fear

and hate

us being excluded

from their feast

from our fate

from our fading eternity


You learned very well how to hide

and eventually forgot

that longing

for truth

and denied

a lovely place in our smile

where our life is our destiny


Our kiss is the kiss

from that time

when first two were really surprised

finding darkness, sadness

and light

beyond one’s cage of body or mind

caressing chaos with synergy


El Matallana