Ahora que no te escribo cuando me voy.Ahora que estoy más vivo de lo que estoy.Ahora que nada es urgente, que todo es presente, que hay pan para hoy.Ahora que no te pido lo que me das.Ahora que no me mido con los demás.Ahora que, todos los cuentos, parecen el cuento de nunca empezar.
ví dù người có phụ tathì ta chỉ nguyện thành ra con bòcon bò rất ít so đoyêu ai chỉ biết lò dò đi theodù cho đứa đó lật kèo
They were full of mysteries and secrets, like... like poems turned into landscapes.""'Poems turned into landscapes.'" he murmured with a slight smile. "And what of Vestenveld's gardens? Do you see poems in them?""Your gardens are like your country's poetry. Very frilly and organized.
Napsautan rasian kiinni ja nauran. Minulla on keltaiset pitkät ham-paat ja suu täynnä kuolaa. Ihoa reitittävät yöperhosten polut, joita voikulkea minne tahansa. Kun voi kulkea minne tahansa, on helppojäädä tähän taloon, joka on oleva hevosen talo.
One sister for sale,One sister for sale,One crying and spying young sister for saleI'm really not kidding so who'll start the biddingDo I hear a dollar?A nickle?A penny?Oh isnt there isnt there isnt there anyOne person who will buy this sister for saleThis crying spying old young sister for sale.
Every time a poet is about to write, every time the open their mouth to say something, they express their inner world and tell of their own feelings, thoughts, beliefs, and opinions, unless they are deliberately pursuing fantasies which contrast with their beliefs, opinions, thoughts, and the point of view.
It wouldn't have to be sunny It wouldn't have to be anything else then just that It would really simplify my walk home at night, where every thought I think is some contrived line I repeat over and over to myself Words are always just replaced with new ones The pictures would never need to know otherwise
i am really colored & really sad sometimes & you hurt memore than i ever danced outta/ i am ready to die like a lily in thedesert/ & i cdnt let you in on it cuz i didnt know/ hereis what i have/ poems/ big thighs/ lil tits/ &so much love/ will you take it from me this one time/ please this is for you
There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't sit still;So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will.They range the field and rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Their's is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.
If my like for you was a footy crowd, you'd be deaf cos of the roar.And if my like for you were a boxer, there'd be a dead guy lying on the floor.And if my like for you were sugar, you'd lose your teeth before you were twenty. And if my like for you was money, let's just say you'd be spending plenty.
A double-edged swordOne side destroysOne releasesI am your Gordian knotWill you release or destroy me?Follow truth and you shall:Find me on waterPurify me through fireTrapped by earth nevermoreAir will whisper to youWhat spirit already knows:That even shatteredanything is possibleIf you believeThen we shall both be free.
Žvaigždes juodai užtapiauAtleiskNegalėjau užmigtiEiti ir klupti ir eiti tavęs pasitiktiTen kur toli kur skaudžiau ir tikriauAš nepabūgau aš tik nutilau arba tarkim miriauIr patikėk netgi šitai net šitai galėtų turėtų užsnigti
Che pensieri soavi,che speranze, che cori, o Silvia mia!Quale allor ci appariala vita umana e il fato!Quando sovviemmi di cotanta speme,un affetto mi premeacerbo e sconsolato,e tornami a doler di mia sventura.O natura, o natura,perché non rendi poiquel che prometti allor? perché di tantoinganni i figli tuoi?
The Garden Under Snow "Now the garden is under snow a blank page our footprints write onclare who was never minebut always belonged to herselfSleeping Beautya crystalline blanketthis is her springthis is her sleeping/awakeningshe is waitingeverything is waitingthe improbable shapes of rootsmy babyher facea garden, waiting.
A poem is a place where the conditions of beyondness and withinness are made palpable, where to imagine is to feel what it is like to be. It allows us to have the life we are denied because we are too busy living. Even more paradoxically, a poem permits us to live in ourselves as if we were just out of reach of ourselves.
