domingo, 13 de abril de 2014

Para un amigo que ha perdido lo más preciado

Ojalá pudiéramos  construir para nuestro amigo paredes de sueños que le negaran la entrada a la tristeza. 
Como consolar a un padre que ha perdido lo más preciado que nos ha sido dado?
La vida se piensa de una manera y tuerce el rumbo en un instante. La querida presencia se convierte, abruptamente, en  ausencia irreparable.
Uno piensa: eso no puede ser. Y, sin embargo, lo que cabe  decir es que no debe ser.
La pérdida de un hijo obliga al padre a enfrentarse al abismo de la desesperanza.
Todo lo que podemos hacer sus amigos es tomarlo de la mano y hacerle saber que no está solo en su momento de infinita congoja. 
Y compartir la carga en lo posible. 
Y llorar con él.

John Donne nos dijo:
La muerte no debe sentirse orgullosa…
 aunque se lleve a los mejores….
Después de un breve sueño, despertaremos eternamente
Y la muerte dejará de existir…

Y el Salmo 23:
Aunque pase por un valle tenebroso,
ningún mal temeré…

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;