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■ Pașadine în vers alb (73)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2007-03-11 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
His Breath of Life
Like morning dew is his breath of life floating, a veil of mist, content and waiting For light to lift it. Like a calls out so passively, diamond among rocks, its' beauty permeating the landscape, But wary of it's boundry. Exuding irony, it is both demure and feature-ful, guarding, but not pessimistic. The intercourse of man to his veil would be an unstructured affair, Culminating in ecstasy. Hardly daring to breath, only gasps will emit At the overpowering awe. And, the breath, gentle and strong, blows evermore the embers of hope. Clawing out of the pit of life, unbridled desperateness pervades, Despite the presence. Such as eyes transfixed to a beam of light, do we endure, chanting, to convince ourselves, it must be reality. The ensuing air of flowered love meets our soul with a rush of goodwill. Peace becomes our bones. The earth is not round - nor is it flat. One can see, beyond the mountains, enduring to infinity lay the earth - a virgin waiting to be explored. Time has become a single event, never referring to a schedule. The wind, too, is free not to be confined to one direction alone. The raven of pain flies patiently, opportunity but guarenteed; so many houses in which to feed, and so many houses in which to rest; no one invites the raven. A faldstool becries a suffering; its' voice, desperate to be revered, announces, "Those must approach and exalt." It seethes in fear, hidden in ego. "The veil is coming," it screams. Come it does - a revelation of light, softening all else in its' wake, while velvet embers of transparency guide its progress. Crisp morning dew chooses life.
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