Her wild heart…
All the ways in which it runs
untamed and free
~
Hot summer night…
sipping red wine
and thinking of her lips
~
Shared whispers
two souls weaving
their intimate tapestry
Her wild heart…
All the ways in which it runs
untamed and free
~
Hot summer night…
sipping red wine
and thinking of her lips
~
Shared whispers
two souls weaving
their intimate tapestry
Through the withered grass
a winding path…
the journey itself is home
Inspired by Basho
Sunday morning…
listening to the wind
caressing the grass
~
Mouillé de larmes
sur les branches du poème
la lune brille
In the stillness of the night
I feel your voice
echo through me,
a sea of clouds brushing
the riverbed of stars.
~
The breath
escaping your lips
as you slept at night
at dawn I feel its dew
lacing my aching heart
As the hills slept
the city awakened,
its little fires
scattered like stardust
over the breasts of the earth.
A summary reading of the history of myths teaches us how religious even the most atheist of us remains; how the religious lives on in us, in our imagination, ideas, impulses, emotions, motives, narratives of life, etc., irrespectively of what our rational mind believes. We remain worshipers in a temple we no longer believe in its existence. We remain idolators of a power in which we ceased to believe, at the very thought of which we cannot hold our laughter, our cynicism — and what is cynicism if not the pain of a wound? We may know a lot more, we moderns, but we feel a lot less and less profoundly, and the world of our feeling, intuition, and imagination has shrunk in proportion to the horizons which our minds have widened. We know no reverence; we are deeply irreverent. The sacred has been expunged from our rational world, and that is a direct correlation with the way we are handling our planet and ourselves.
From a crack in the wall,
a weed sprouts…
the flower of street art