Fade faraway, dissolve and forget
Poor calf, in a chamber of death laid
His life, a ruthless gamble, a lost bet
Red pond, where his final breath was bade.
He pondered what garlands,
would adorn his head.
What hymns would be sung, once he was dead.
For his life began to smoulder
Slowly falling, like sisyphus’ boulder.
Can we censure the soul
For a journey not its own
Or a love it never known
And if his finale was but a causual toll?
Can we cast stones
At a heart without a home
Or a spirit that has never flown
And fault him for life's final tone?
"O, to be his closest akin
Was an enormous sin
To drown in Moses' tides so grand
And leap from Noah's ark where the angels all stand"
His mum scarcely cried,
She seemed like a good cow
"A calf that has two-heads,
how monstrous and full of dreads"
His chest did heave, a fading song
His breath did wane, his voice now gone
The melody, now but a memory
Echoes softly, a fading elegy.
On his twin brows a last kiss made,
Next him, white Lily placed
My dad came, today is no romp
His face turned red, stomp! Stomp! Stomp!
"He belongs to me..just as you
His life is mine, and he took it!
What should I do?
How do you eat a calf, that commit?"
“Not all calfs are made to be killed by us”
I said, as i pick the now-red flower
But my father kept making a fuss
For against him I hold no power
The crimson pond before my gaze,
Reminded me, who am I within?
A doll, in organized plays
Chained by blood, bound by kin.
Poor calf, in a chamber of death laid
His life, a ruthless gamble, a lost bet
Red pond, where his final breath was bade.
He pondered what garlands,
would adorn his head.
What hymns would be sung, once he was dead.
For his life began to smoulder
Slowly falling, like sisyphus’ boulder.
Can we censure the soul
For a journey not its own
Or a love it never known
And if his finale was but a causual toll?
Can we cast stones
At a heart without a home
Or a spirit that has never flown
And fault him for life's final tone?
"O, to be his closest akin
Was an enormous sin
To drown in Moses' tides so grand
And leap from Noah's ark where the angels all stand"
His mum scarcely cried,
She seemed like a good cow
"A calf that has two-heads,
how monstrous and full of dreads"
His chest did heave, a fading song
His breath did wane, his voice now gone
The melody, now but a memory
Echoes softly, a fading elegy.
On his twin brows a last kiss made,
Next him, white Lily placed
My dad came, today is no romp
His face turned red, stomp! Stomp! Stomp!
"He belongs to me..just as you
His life is mine, and he took it!
What should I do?
How do you eat a calf, that commit?"
“Not all calfs are made to be killed by us”
I said, as i pick the now-red flower
But my father kept making a fuss
For against him I hold no power
The crimson pond before my gaze,
Reminded me, who am I within?
A doll, in organized plays
Chained by blood, bound by kin.
Throughout the course of the generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhaustible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.
And to think that she wouldn't exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.
—History Of The Night, Jorge Luis Borges
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhaustible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.
And to think that she wouldn't exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.
—History Of The Night, Jorge Luis Borges
There is no dusk to be,
There is no dawn that was,
Only there's now, and now,
And the wind in the grass.
Days I remember of
Now in my heart, are now;
Days that I dream will bloom
White the peach bough.
Dying shall never be
Now in the windy grass;
Now under shooken leaves
Death never was.
—An Eternity, Archibald MacLeish
There is no dawn that was,
Only there's now, and now,
And the wind in the grass.
Days I remember of
Now in my heart, are now;
Days that I dream will bloom
White the peach bough.
Dying shall never be
Now in the windy grass;
Now under shooken leaves
Death never was.
—An Eternity, Archibald MacLeish
The house seems
to circle around you slowly.
I circle around you, a wild animal
near a fire.
I remember
I would kill for you.
I remind myself, it won’t be necessary.
—Sharon Olds.
to circle around you slowly.
I circle around you, a wild animal
near a fire.
I remember
I would kill for you.
I remind myself, it won’t be necessary.
—Sharon Olds.
“To touch someone is to risk pain, to risk rejection, be it your own or that of another. It is a bridge you walk together, swaying above an abyss of fear. To hold each other’s hands is to have balance. Yet it also means having their weight with you, should there be a sudden fall.”
— D. E. Chaudron, excerpt of Your Body.
— D. E. Chaudron, excerpt of Your Body.
Forwarded from F U L L ♪ (Dan (He/Them))
@mrgryphon - The thrill, the fear, the hope, oil on paper, 2021
You get a strange feeling when you're about to leave a place. Like you'll not only miss the people you love but you'll miss the person you are now at this time and this place because you'll never be this way ever again.
- Azar Nafisi // Reading Lolita in Tehran
- Azar Nafisi // Reading Lolita in Tehran