Fragmented dreams and glistering desires
Are scattered like a myriad of ocean drops
So different, with numerous shortcomings
Unreachable up there at Heaven’s shore
By: Gulnara Karimova
Deep calls unto deep… A spirit of soaring above all
pettiness, mediocrity, earthly bounds… to soar above all earthly things… to be
all of yourself (no more, no less) and no other… to suffer no guilt for being…
the mind unbounded by the constraints of space and time… to believe that
impossibility is a matter of opinion and not of fact… to breathe the fresh airs
of nature and hear the songs of birds unseen… to hear music that touches the
depth of the soul… to feel the golden rays of my memories touch my skin and
give me shivers… to climb to the top of the mountains of our fears… to shout
out and cry out in joy for being… to drive the roads wherever they lead to… to
live in Mars, Titan or some galaxy far away… to worry about the state of some
peasant in China or Africa… to seek challenges greater than myself… to stand on
top of a green hill in Siberia … be a human being and LIVE until we die… pride
and passions … to fight in the arena regardless of the opinions of others… to
conquer paradise … to reach out and feel the touch of the hand and face of God. By: Homeless
with a Laptop, that is my name
Floating over mysterious clouds
Trying to touch some unreachable heights
Breathing it over amazed and astounded
Leaving all daily requirements behind
Getting your mind and your body united
Grasping upon something really immense
Taking a gulp of enchanting and boundless
Listening in to inexplicable bells.
By: Gulnara Karimova
The night blossoms
with a
thousand shadows
so
long
as there are stars,
street
lights
or
a moon and
who shall say
by their
shadows
which is different
from the
other
fat
or lean.
By: William Carlos
Williams
The sun is hidden out
Behind a certain line
Who knows without a doubt
Where abyss meets blue skies?
By: Gulnara Karimova
Ripped from the concept of our lives
and from
all concept
somehow,
and plainly,
the sun will come up
each morning
and
sink again.
So that we experience
Violently
every
day
two worlds
one of
which we share with the
rose in
bloom
and
one,
by far the greater,
with the
past,
the
world of memory,
the silly world of history,
the world
of
the imagination.
Which leaves only the beasts and trees,
crystals
with
their refractive
surfaces
and rotting things
to stir our
wonder.
Save
for the little
central hole
of the eye
itself
into
which
we dare not stare too hard
or we are
lost.
The
instant
trivial as it is
is all we
have
unless—unless
things the imagination feeds upon,
the scent
of the rose,
startle
us anew.
By: William Carlos Williams
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