Who never enjoy playing it.
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Lo……
The words are the flesh,the lines are the bones,the stanzas are the limbs,the theme is its lungs,the emotions are the heart,the style is its breathing,the voice is the souland the body is the poet.Such is a Poem.
As your round moon face
Speechlessly, deaf at theSong of the skylarkCarried thereBy the cool autumn breezeOver the lofty mountains.With the mask ofA nighty birdSinging toIts own echoing self,With the breath ofThe immobile animal faceGrowing stiff with bluenessWith the enormousMuteness of stone,The pale reflectionOf the fallen angel fromThe western skyDisappeared into theOtherness of the other.And I was backInto me.
At the School,
So many masters a day.The Principal in chargefat with his desires,loaded with greed,wicked at the heart,witty with a brainalways ready to put meinto situations adverseto throw me into his drainof unfulfilled dreams andinsatiable desiresthat would curse.I have to please this manto keep my joband image at the officesafe and clean.
Love
Enjoyed, not played,On unseen grounds, hearts,Spontaneous.
It’s so difficult to grow
A candle lit at noon.
Such is the case with us.
Helpless in a way –While we snap our love,Through mere wordsThrough the dotsDots rarely show the real-The realm of beauty,The realm of God,The realm of love.A finger is neededIndeed to point the moon,Once we recognize the moonWhy trouble the finger?