Buenos días amigos de Hive!!
Aprovecho las vacaciones para salir a correr al lado de la carretera, llevo mi celular conmigo y tomo algunas fotos; lamentablemente el día no es tan luminoso, está nublado y las fotos no tienen esos colores vivos que irradia la primavera.
En esta región le dicen a esta época de lluvias, invierno. En realidad en nuestro hemisferio es verano y cuando el cielo está despejado se siente muy bravo el calor.
Salgo a la calle y puedo sentir el calor ya emergiendo junto a una brisa ligerísima, las personas comienzan a desfilar a sus trabajos, en motos mas que todo, algunos en autos. Las personas aprovechan el sábado para correr en la ciudad, en esta avenida conocida como circunvalar, existe una ciclovía y por allí se encarrilan en grupos, debajo de los árboles se es grato sentir el batir de la brisa a pesar del esfuerzo que la carrera implica. Ya se pueden ver los tinteros y vendedores de comidas ambulantes ocupando sus lugares, empanadas, café, jugos, fritos de toda clase y un sin número de trabajadores que acuden a tomar su primer alimento.
Y mientras yo hago mi esfuerzo y troto un poco voy tomando fotos aquí y allá con mi viejo A50, para luego publicarles aquí. La verdad, no hay mucho color y las retoco con Photoshop, espero les gusten y más que todo les refresquen la vista, como a mi el invierno colombiano.
les dejo además texto, espero que les guste.
Que tengan un lindo día todos y que la dicha les abrace,
PoetaFranko
Gracias por la visita 🌹
I'm taking advantage of the vacation days to go for a run along the side of the road. I bring my phone with me and take a few pictures along the way. Unfortunately, the day isn’t very bright—it's cloudy, and the photos lack those vivid colors that spring usually radiates.
In this region, people call the rainy season "winter." But in reality, in our hemisphere, it’s actually summer—and when the sky clears, the heat can be intense.
As I step out onto the street, I can already feel the warmth rising, carried by a gentle breeze. People are beginning to head to work, most on motorcycles, a few in cars. On Saturdays, many also take the opportunity to go for a run in the city. Along the Circunvalar Avenue, there's a bike lane where groups of runners gather. Under the trees, the breeze is refreshing despite the effort the run demands.
Street vendors are also setting up their stands—inkwells, coffee, fresh juices, empanadas, all kinds of fried foods—serving countless workers grabbing their first meal of the day.
While I jog, I snap a few pictures here and there with my old A50, and later I share them here. To be honest, there's not much color today, so I give them a light touch-up in Photoshop. I hope you enjoy them—and that they refresh your eyes just like the Colombian “winter” does.
I’m also leaving you a short text below. I hope you like it.
Have a wonderful day, and may happiness embrace you always.
passing once more by the same white lines,
cyclically, and yet within another cloister—
silently freeing a thought.
I’d like to stop him and embrace him,
in his childlike rhythm and gentlemanly air,
rocking the walk with silences—
that walk, stripped of emotions and worries,
that simulates a slow pace,
folding the softness of the abdomen.
her careful way of dressing, to brush against her
and appreciate her fleeting presence,
so briefly human, yet adorably sincere.
to strike the wicked man’s lunar buttock—
when he, with cold sobriety, longs for theft—
to prick his head with a pin,
and humiliate that sour, perverse instinct,
tying it to a bunch of colorful balloons.
as a small flattery to the morning—
not to walk so errantly in understanding,
but to cling to a modern philanthropy,
to be a squire for the nobility
that dares to attack poverty and human defects—
those new, non-Lutheran churches.
to free the impulse to extend my hand
to the approaching walker
who greets me with a “good morning,”
and I, in turn—**good morning...**
in lapel and shirt stretched out,
without martyrdom.
**Good morning, good road—**
**walker, remember Machado,**
**and try to catch the tear**
**with the cotton of the soul**
**when it falls.**
