Showing posts from March, 2016

Wake Up

Where will the journey take us further? We have been here for thousands of years, and the sole purpose most of our species have found for our existence is to destroy each other. One day, you may be the one and I will be the others; one day, I may be the one. What difference does it make when there must be shoulders trodden down for others to get on and rise? Our very own existence is based on the welfare of some and the suffering of others as if equilibrium requires it, and justice cannot be done if not against every mouth that’s fed, there is an empty one; and against every heart that smiles, there is a gloomy one.
Should we then care about the whole world, or just ourselves? “I am just too insignificant to change the world” isn’t that idea enough to hold us back from each other and let very few tyrants take control of our hunger and misery? It does not matter what we have done, but what we are about to do.
If we could just start not with the ones on the other side of the globe, but …

Whispers from the Days Long Gone

Whispers from the days long gone come back;
no more than a friend preserved for old age
dwindling toward the height of youth to return
a giant near the end of life— when all realities fade,
all of who you are is no match to one lost dream— that little child chasing a kite might have flown if not for everyone who told him he could not; to look back and amuse yourself, pretend, and regret a river doesn’t flow to the sea to come back, not in one lifetime, anyway, are chances reborn— to boast fighting the storm cowering in a cave— victory is lame when all heroes fall and archers win; if you don’t look life in the eye, face to face, what good is looking in a mirror to see life moving on? To what you owed the days with each day refreshed they owed you nothing, already filled you with life. Whispers from the days long gone come back I wish I were younger to hear more than whispers.

What If we can Do This

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gon…

The Guardians of Literature

One day they woke up naked, broke and desperate with nothing left to fight or die for, so they led the way back to the heart of the city flaming every corner with the things they learned from war: giving speeches, selling dreams and harvesting the wind. When they could not wage their war anymore, they turned to be theorists crystallizing their strategy of defense by sending youngsters to war and death. They call themselves The Guardians of Literature.

They send youngsters to wage their wars, the ones they never won they want to be won now in their name. The flame they pass from their generation to ours leaving us to burn with its old flame and irrelevant fume or stay alone in the dark. They guard the door; they hold the keys and they control what may come next, but if there must be war, there must be a war to escape the old roots of conformity and lay the foundation for an individual world where everyone unites, but in their own unique way.

They can speak any language they like, but t…

The Iceberg of a Man

Too deep like an iceberg I see nothing but the tip—
the truth well hides, the part well seen means nothing
I haven’t been told more than anybody else.
I, a flower, hold but a little root for who I am,
all your eyes can see is my entirety verbatim— the fragrance, the sweet and tender spring caress life broke out like life eternal, sunshine inside undimmed within my heart, I pass on the dreams of tomorrow; my hands are open, so is my heart with you complete, not inside one of your history books left alone to dry a souvenir of a hand too strong to resist not to pluck— a garden of man so barren, without me a wasteland.

A big game of hide and seek, but what does it matter?
You’ve always been hiding, cowardly behind a curtain—
the protruding parts in you I see are the only man left;
to steal a heart already given is way too short of a theft—
bragging your long tail and swaggering like a false diamond
shining all the way in naïve eyes until one day broken;
take off your shirt first, let me see your c…

Free Our Souls

Stone Walls do not a Prison make, Nor Iron bars a Cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an Hermitage. If I have freedom in my Love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above, Enjoy such Liberty. Free Our Souls What does it look like when you are there inside a prison? Does it feel cold, both in and out? Does it creep under your living skin to torture you from within? Or is it like what Richard said in his poem that the prison is not made of the materials used to build prisons like stone walls and iron bars? Then what is the real prison if it is not the one that takes your freedom away from you by keeping you hidden from other people in one small dark place where you can only talk to only yourself and listen to only yourself. And what is this liberty inside the prison that Lovelace talked about when he compared it to that of angels? How is this possible? Is freedom not the most valuable thing a human has?
To some extent, yes, freedom is the most important thing a man…

They Say It Is Too Late

Whenever you talk to them, they tell you it is too late and they start to lean on the past and stand on their own nostalgic hills overlooking the so-called glories of their past, and they seem not to listen to what you might say anymore. They just say it is too late to save this generation based on their cosmic perception of right and wrong and the irrevocable judgment they pass knowing that everybody is definitely wrong or at least under the big magnifying glass of doubt, but never are they wrong at all; it is simply impossible. Is it really impossible? Is it really too late?

When we had our time, didn’t our parents say the same about us? Didn’t our teachers say the same? Was there a reason for us to believe they were anywhere close to being right? Why do we surrender into believing this now? Is it simply because it doesn’t concern us anymore as we have grown to be whatever we are today, or just because it is simple, easy, fast to surrender and point our finger at these young, proud …

Does It Really Matter

Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely? All this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely?
Does It Really Matter? Does it really matter that one day we will inevitably cease completely? Does it really matter that all this will go on without us? Does all this really matter?

What is the real worth of our being here right now at this time of day, in this year and century, and in this era of human history? The first thing we couldn’t do anything about was our being here at this stage of history. We couldn’t choose a lot of things in our being as we are, there is definitely a great controversy about whether we choose when to die or not. However, this doesn’t matter as we all know that we will die one day. It is hard to accept that this world survived a long time before we came to it, and will survive as long as it gets without us when …

I Don't Understand

There must have been a thousand ways in front of me when I finally chose one. Not saying that I knew them all, or that all were available, but I took the one and I marched along. Walking a little, singing a little, feeling tired a little, even frustrated sometimes, meditating a little, hoping a little and making the finish line sprint, the way was always covered, and the destination reached. However, I never felt that I got there; I could never rest.
After the fleeting moment of glory for crossing the finish line is over, I always look ahead again and see another path, another race, and another finish line. The moment I say to myself: “I am there,” I feel the road is still long ahead, I am far from ever seeing there, and there seems to be like a mirage that you keep seeing, but you can never really grasp. It is like a feeling with no scientific proof to justify its existence, but it is you who feel it, who enjoy it, and who savor it like the sun in your heart. I have always sought th…