The answer comes in the form of a handwritten letter from the moon.
This is brutally beautiful.
So are we.
This is endless.
So are we.
We can heal this.
P.S. See me for who I am.
We’ve got work to do.
"If only there were no other people in the world."
Last line of Anne Frank’s final diary entry, August 1, 1944
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another’s being mingle —
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain’d its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea —
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
Percy Bysshe Shelley
| Syrian contemporary literature: Faraj Bairaqdar. #poetry (Taken with Instagram)
"Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die."
All people start to
come apart finally
and there it is:
just empty ashtrays in a room
or wisps of hair on a comb
in the dissolving moonlight.
it is all ash and dry leaves
and grief gone
like an ocean liner.
when the shoes fill with blood
that the shoes are dead.
comes from true revulsion;
when things get bad enough
the kitten will kill the lion.
the statues in the church of my childhood
and the candles that burn at their feet
if I could only take these
and open their eyes
and feel their legs
and hear their clay mouths
say the true
Charles Bukowski, The People.
Poets would relate to this.
that so many commonplace miracles happen.
An ordinary miracle:
in the dead of night
the barking of invisible dogs.
One miracle out of many:
a small, airy cloud
yet it can block a large and heavy moon.
Several miracles in one:
an alder tree reflected in the water,
and that it’s backwards left to right
and that it grows there, crown down
and never reaches the bottom,
even though the water is shallow.
An everyday miracle:
winds weak to moderate
turning gusty in storms.
First among equal miracles:
cows are cows.
Second to none:
just this orchard
from just that seed.
A miracle without a cape and top hat:
scattering white doves.
A miracle, for what else could you call it:
today the sun rose at three-fourteen
and will set at eight-o-one.
A miracle, less surprising than it should be:
even though the hand has fewer than six fingers,
it still has more than four.
A miracle, just take a look around:
the world is everywhere.
An additional miracle, as everything is additional:
by Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak
"I loved you; even now I must confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I love you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so."
I Loved You by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
“it was like any other
relationship, there was
jealousy on both sides,
there were split-ups and
there were also fragmented moments of
great peace and beauty.
I often tried to get away from her and
she tied to get away from me
but it was difficult:
Cupid, in his strange way, was really
Great writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the best part for paper.
Good human beings save the world
so that bastards like me can keep creating art,
if you read this after I am dead
it means I made it.
They had lunch by the lake
then they gathered up their movements and drove
head first into the accident of the city.
Will you move into my apartment?
Will you climb out of bed at sunrise?
They drove out into the country of trees.
I would like the season to be grateful
in the way it has of being less than cruel.
Showers, easy traffic, make up the symphony
they wallow in, in the framework of personal
past tense, now that we watch them
flashed and faded in the photograph.
They sat behind the window of the limousine
and watched the sun rise into the weather.
They drove head first
into the beautiful accident.
Love Story by John Tranter