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20,634 books
—
24,452 voters
wolf spirit
http://mysacredrainangel.blogspot.com
“Jewels of the World
Memory
Where everything gains,
Where everything is lost,
Where light sleeps and
Darkness reins.
Memory
A footstep washed away,
An impression saved.
Where time knows no boundaries
and washes away.
Memory
A foreign thought
A forged lie,
A deformed way that
Can’t be bought.
Memory
A slipped flash,
Gone forever from mentality,
Encased in darkness and is
Nothing but a dash-
Memory
Compressed to specifics,
Denied of choice,
Of grace,
Left to the efficient.
Memory
An expectation of retrospect,
Penetrating mentality
And asking only
for respect.
Memory
Like the evening pond,
Encasement of treasures
to be held with care,
Before they are gone.
Memory
Something to be kept,
Never to be borrowed
Or stolen,
Or even to be met”
―
Memory
Where everything gains,
Where everything is lost,
Where light sleeps and
Darkness reins.
Memory
A footstep washed away,
An impression saved.
Where time knows no boundaries
and washes away.
Memory
A foreign thought
A forged lie,
A deformed way that
Can’t be bought.
Memory
A slipped flash,
Gone forever from mentality,
Encased in darkness and is
Nothing but a dash-
Memory
Compressed to specifics,
Denied of choice,
Of grace,
Left to the efficient.
Memory
An expectation of retrospect,
Penetrating mentality
And asking only
for respect.
Memory
Like the evening pond,
Encasement of treasures
to be held with care,
Before they are gone.
Memory
Something to be kept,
Never to be borrowed
Or stolen,
Or even to be met”
―
“This was the door to both sustenance and sanity. And we were each other's key.”
― Mockingjay
― Mockingjay
“This Bitter Language
I know your streets, sweet city,
I know the demons and angels that flock
and roost in your boughs like birds.
I know you, river, as if you flowed
through my heart.
I am your warrior daughter.
There are letters made of your body
as a fountain is made of water.
There are languages
of which you are the blueprint
and as we speak them
the city rises.”
―
I know your streets, sweet city,
I know the demons and angels that flock
and roost in your boughs like birds.
I know you, river, as if you flowed
through my heart.
I am your warrior daughter.
There are letters made of your body
as a fountain is made of water.
There are languages
of which you are the blueprint
and as we speak them
the city rises.”
―
“Let's give the world to the children just for one day
like a balloon in bright and striking colours to play with
let them play singing among the stars
let's give the world to the children
like a huge apple like a warm loaf of bread
at least for one day let them have enough
let's give the world to the children
at least for one day let the world learn friendship
children will get the world from our hands
they'll plant immortal trees
- "Let's Give the World to the Children”
―
like a balloon in bright and striking colours to play with
let them play singing among the stars
let's give the world to the children
like a huge apple like a warm loaf of bread
at least for one day let them have enough
let's give the world to the children
at least for one day let the world learn friendship
children will get the world from our hands
they'll plant immortal trees
- "Let's Give the World to the Children”
―
“My only one!
In your last letter
"My head aches
my heart is stunned!"
you say.
"If they hang you,
if I lose you;"
you say;
"I can't live!"
You'll live my dearest wife,
like a black smoke in the wind my memory will vanish;
you'll live, the red-haired sister of my heart
at most one year it lasts
in the twentieth century
the grief of death..
Death
a dead body swinging on a rope.
My heart doesn't accept
such a death..
But
be sure that, my love,
if some pitiable gypsy's
hairy black spider like hand
slips the rope
around my neck,
to see the fear in my blue eyes
they'll look in vain
at Nâzım!
And I,
in the twilight of my last morning,
shall see my friends and you,
and carry only the grief
of an unfinished song
to the soil...
My wife!
Good hearted,
golden coloured,
with eyes sweeter than honey, my bee;
why did I write you
that they want to hang me,
the trial is in the first step
and they don't pluck like a turnip
the head of a man.
Come, forget them all.
These are so far away probabilities.
If you have some money
buy me a flannel underwear,
my sciatica is acting up.
And don't forget that always
there should be good thoughts in the mind
of a prisoner's wife.”
―
In your last letter
"My head aches
my heart is stunned!"
you say.
"If they hang you,
if I lose you;"
you say;
"I can't live!"
You'll live my dearest wife,
like a black smoke in the wind my memory will vanish;
you'll live, the red-haired sister of my heart
at most one year it lasts
in the twentieth century
the grief of death..
Death
a dead body swinging on a rope.
My heart doesn't accept
such a death..
But
be sure that, my love,
if some pitiable gypsy's
hairy black spider like hand
slips the rope
around my neck,
to see the fear in my blue eyes
they'll look in vain
at Nâzım!
And I,
in the twilight of my last morning,
shall see my friends and you,
and carry only the grief
of an unfinished song
to the soil...
My wife!
Good hearted,
golden coloured,
with eyes sweeter than honey, my bee;
why did I write you
that they want to hang me,
the trial is in the first step
and they don't pluck like a turnip
the head of a man.
Come, forget them all.
These are so far away probabilities.
If you have some money
buy me a flannel underwear,
my sciatica is acting up.
And don't forget that always
there should be good thoughts in the mind
of a prisoner's wife.”
―
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