We are within the same minute Some of us are still asleep Others are rushing to the bus stop for work Streetlights are being turned off The sun leaps from the horizon like a spear The coolness of the morning touches our faces The birds have long since awakened Scattered across the vast sky Buses
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Poets do not die, they just sleep. Gonzalo Rojas. The writer puts the end point, the reader closes the book, for the characters there is no mourning relief because -unfailingly- they die
I write so that poisoned water may be drunk. Chantal MAILLARD It is there, watching you boastful from its pedantic watchtower of stacked pages. The litany of blank pieces of paper makes dance the letters in your mind without rhyme or reason. The turbid synapses of your neurons is disconnected, there are no more speeches
“Alice: How much time is forever? White Rabbit: Sometimes, only a second “ Lewis CARROLL Alice did not know that behind the mirror there was no Wonderland. Nor did she know -as she slipped- that there was no light at the end of the tunnel. There was only the everyday life kidnapping
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Do not fix those sea-blue eyes upon mine My heart stirs in a strange way. Your eyes for which I have deep longing They speak to me of distant shores. Blue dreams, blue yearnings I gaze at you. Foaming waves crash, mercilessly Against the empty harbor of my heart. A harbor from which, so many
Let the rainy season begin What does it matter if I have been shattered a thousand times by your absence, If memories have grown resentful, or songs have brought only sorrow for years on end? What does it matter if, until today, I have wept with my clumsy hands, And if I echoed the same
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Nights with your absence have begun in this goddamn city. For some reason, you always come to mind at night, I count black sheep, trying to forget Only to remember all over again. How could one not feel a heavy heart, or, if one could, not curse? I weep, silent and still, in the embrace
Reserve a small space for me in your heart, I shall return with a thousand blue eyes. Reserve a small space for me in your slumbers, I shall return with a thousand blue dreams. Have you forgotten the spring times? Have you, perhaps, forgotten me? You left, and the rest, the rain and the
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– To My Valiant Kinsmen of Turkistan – How could I forget, A land that holds history within its thousand-fold centuries? My past is as clear as the ancient, white-crowned Tian Shan. Its mist-veiled peak speaks to me of Ergenekon, Of Manas, and of countless heroes, the “Baturs”. How could I forget The
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(Even though it hurts sometimes) Just as Nietzsche proclaimed, I have learned to say “Yes” to life, even when it burns, because there is nothing eternal to sustain us, only the moment burning in its own fire. My days have unfolded between shadow and light. I have tried to live and enjoy both the sun
