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In western lands beneath the Sun
The flowers may rise in Spring,
The trees may bud, the waters run,
The merry finches sing.
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night,
And swaying branches bear
The Elven-stars as jewels white
Amid their branching hair.
Though here at journey's end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.
BECAUSE OF PERSONAL ISSUES I WILL CONSIDER THIS ACCOUNT CLOSED!
FOR THE SINCERE SUPPORT DURING MY STAY I AM THANKFUL AND WILL ADD MY PERSONAL WATCHERS TO THE NEW ACCOUNT
FOR ALL THE OTHERS,
GOOD NIGHT !
The flowers may rise in Spring,
The trees may bud, the waters run,
The merry finches sing.
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night,
And swaying branches bear
The Elven-stars as jewels white
Amid their branching hair.
Though here at journey's end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.
BECAUSE OF PERSONAL ISSUES I WILL CONSIDER THIS ACCOUNT CLOSED!
FOR THE SINCERE SUPPORT DURING MY STAY I AM THANKFUL AND WILL ADD MY PERSONAL WATCHERS TO THE NEW ACCOUNT
FOR ALL THE OTHERS,
GOOD NIGHT !
menthol cigarettes from Teheran
fancy sparks you call
post-modernism
so many directions chosen
by well formed Artemis legs
wearing french lingerie
the electricity
poisons us with the speed of a century
well fucking done,
ma petite folie!
i´m losing grind
in neverending summers
by 45 degrees
Che will be so proud
if he ain´t rotting
"You can never have a revolution in order to establish a democracy. You must have a democracy in order to have a revolution."
G. K. Chesterton
FIELDS IN SPRING by Nichita Stanescu
Green rings around the eyes, this grass in vibrant motion
arcs tenderly about you, at a distance-
you summon it, then fling it round, broken
by your laugh of youth and innocence.
Stretched under you, this curling dome of grass
would sound its voices in the gravel-
but you are unaware - and now you pass
through foreign stars, a fool.
THE ASCENSION OF WORDS
by Nichita Stanescu
Thus, like the skin
of a shorn ewe, the day rises.
It is difficult to skin the self from a stone.
It is difficult to skin memory from a Greek.
But why should we talk about these!
After all,
light too has a skin,
light too can be skinned...
So
light too is guilty of being.
A gust of fresh air
comes with the millenium.
We are beautiful;
why should we not be beautiful?
We eat one another
only from hunger,
from adoration,
from structure,
from love.
It doesn't matter.
We are what we are,
that is, beautiful.
I carry my ever still blood
in my heart.
I carry my ever salt tear
in my eye.
I carry the angel
MIRACLE OF LIFE
:bulletred:real,incredible, epic lesson about survival and life---->http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU8DDYz68kM:bulletred:
Please watch!
© 2008 - 2024 Vendegor
Comments6
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Well , my dearest Vendegor . It has truly been a pleasure and great choice in the ending poem for this account.