"Sobre Aquellas Palabras" by St. Therese of Avila (in Spanish)

Ya toda me entregué y di,

y de tal suerte he trocado,

que es mi Amado para mí,

y yo soy para mi Amado.

Cuando el dulce Cazador

me tiró y dejó rendida,

en los brazos del amor

mi alma quedó caída,

y cobrando nueva vida

de tal manera he trocado,

que es mi Amado para mí,

y yo soy para mi Amado.

Hiriome con una flecha

enherbolada de amor,

y mi alma quedó hecha

una con su Criador;

ya yo no quiero otro amor,

pues a mi Dios me he entregado,

y mi Amado es para mí,

y yo soy para mi amado.

"The Ass and the Lapdog" by Aesop (in English)

   A Man had an Ass, and a Maltese Lapdog, a very great beauty. The Ass was left in a stable and had plenty of oats and hay to eat, just as any other Ass would. The Lapdog knew many tricks and was a great favorite with his master, who often fondled him and seldom went out to dine without bringing him home some tidbit to eat. The Ass, on the contrary, had much work to do in grinding the corn-mill and in carrying wood from the forest or burdens from the farm. He often lamented his own hard fate and contrasted it with the luxury and idleness of the Lapdog, till at last one day he broke his cords and halter, and galloped into his master's house, kicking up his heels without measure, and frisking and fawning as well as he could. He next tried to jump about his master as he had seen the Lapdog do, but he broke the table and smashed all the dishes upon it to atoms. He then attempted to lick his master, and jumped upon his back. The servants, hearing the strange hubbub and perceiving the danger of their master, quickly relieved him, and drove out the Ass to his stable with kicks and clubs and cuffs. The Ass, as he returned to his stall beaten nearly to death, thus lamented:  "I have brought it all on myself! Why could I not have been contented to labor with my companions, and not wish to be idle all the day like that useless little Lapdog!"

            To be satisfied with one's lot is better than

to desire something which one is not fitted to receive.

Untitled Poem by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

Era uma vez
que não será mais.
Era uma vez
outra das histórias
tristes de que não
quero lembrar.

Era uma vez
quando topei
co'a fúlgida
luz do teu olhar
d'estrela azul.

Foi mesmo uma vez
e a estrela foi correr
pelo céu, deixando
meus olhos cegados
por sua luz brilhante.

"The Death Car" by Unknown Writer (in English)

 art by Giovanni Ticci and Alberto Giolitti- The Twilight Zone #14 – Gold Key,  Feb. 1966.

“Rosas” by Alphonsus de Guimaraens (in Portuguese)

Rosas que já fostes, desfolhadas

Por mãos também que já se foram; rosas

Suaves e tristes! Rosas que as amadas

Mortas também, beijaram suspirosas...

Umas rubras e vãs, outras fanadas,

Mas cheias do calor das amorosas...

Sois aroma de alfombra silenciosas

Onde dormiram tranças destrançadas.

Umas brancas, da cor das pobres freiras,

Outras cheias de viço e de frescura,

Rosas primeiras, rosas derradeiras!

Ai! quem melhor que vós, se a dor perdura,

Para coroar-me, rosas passageiras,

O sonho que se esvai na desventura?

“Epigrama n. 2” by Cecília Meireles (in Portuguese)

És precária e veloz, Felicidade.

Custas a vir e, quando vens, não te demoras.

Foste tu que ensinaste aos homens que havia tempo,

e, para te medir, se inventaram as horas.

Felicidade, és coisa estranha e dolorosa:

Fizeste para sempre a vida ficar triste:

Porque um dia se vê que as horas todas passam,

e um tempo despovoado e profundo, persiste.

“By The Arno” by Oscar Wilde (in English)

The oleander on the wall

Grows crimson in the dawning light,

Though the grey shadows of the night

Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill,

And bright the blossoms overhead,

But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,

The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred

By the soft breathing of the gale,

And in the almond-scented vale

The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon,

O nightingale sing on for love!

While yet upon the shadowy grove

Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn

In sea-green mist the morning steals,

And to love's frightened eyes reveals

The long white fingers of the dawn

Fast climbing up the eastern sky

To grasp and slay the shuddering night,

All careless of my heart's delight,

Or if the nightingale should die.