“ولنا أحلامنا الصغرى, كأن
نصحو من النوم معافين من الخيبة
لم نحلم بأشياء عصية
نحن أحياء وباقون ... وللحلم بقيةْ”
― لا أريد لهذي القصيدة أن تنتهي
نصحو من النوم معافين من الخيبة
لم نحلم بأشياء عصية
نحن أحياء وباقون ... وللحلم بقيةْ”
― لا أريد لهذي القصيدة أن تنتهي
“The way of love is not
a subtle argument.
The door there
is devastation.
Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?
They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.”
―
a subtle argument.
The door there
is devastation.
Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?
They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.”
―
“There are
So many positions of
Love:
Each curve on a branch,
The thousand different ways
Your eyes can embrace us,
The infinite shapes your
Mind can draw,
The spring
Orchestra of scents,
The currents of light combusting
Like passionate lips,
The revolution of Existence's skirt
Whose folds contain other worlds.
Your every sigh that falls against
His inconceivable
Omnipresent
Body.”
― The Gift
So many positions of
Love:
Each curve on a branch,
The thousand different ways
Your eyes can embrace us,
The infinite shapes your
Mind can draw,
The spring
Orchestra of scents,
The currents of light combusting
Like passionate lips,
The revolution of Existence's skirt
Whose folds contain other worlds.
Your every sigh that falls against
His inconceivable
Omnipresent
Body.”
― The Gift
“Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul, of the soul.”
―
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul, of the soul.”
―
“Listen: this world is the lunatic's sphere,
Don't always agree it's real,
Even with my feet upon it
And the postman knowing my door
My address is somewhere else.”
― The Gift
Don't always agree it's real,
Even with my feet upon it
And the postman knowing my door
My address is somewhere else.”
― The Gift
Tamara’s 2025 Year in Books
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