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Posts Tagged ‘art’

Met an old potter today after crossing the forest;
Old enough to lift the clay that was seeing him
For a long time, with water turned vapour now
And holding still to the air that touched it long ago.
And he greets me saying ‘here comes the mad man,
Here comes the one who couldn’t water the clay’.

Only the heart knows the dream it lives and loves,
Amid springs and falls that the river breathes.
Such emptied souls that multiply more emptiness
Such unflinching evenings and darkness around.
The potter, the wheel, the clay and the aged art
All will now shape this soul for sure salvation.

The decadence of those smiles will lure the obscure;
And the mad man will walk to find again the same clay.

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Among these sun-filled eyes and dust kissed lips
There’s a tale of a tempest that madness whips.
Hand to hand trusts too with a heart holding love
While there are scattered visions of unending hope.
Among these decrepit steps of this temple of faith
We will not gaze deep into the sculptures of science,
But more at the art rising in the distant horizon.

There stand these visions we had like our fathers
Of all generations who hold their child’s finger
To lead through, to greet all and to bid farewell
When done enough with time and tests of life.
Faith is a great magic, holds the breath of ours
When in need and let go when we are set to sail.
Time echoes, the time we live forever and ever.

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Petals of roses, petals of crimson hues so ancient
Laid now on these solemn words of this world.
Was I in a dream, or was I well treading through
The feathers and tossed among the wings of angels?
There are now stones thrown on paltry sculptures
And fear reaming through the veins of that victory.
What was the dream? What was the dream?
Shouted the old man on the same crossroad.
If we can pause, if we can breathe the same air
we started our journey, and touch of the breeze.

We fake to whom if not the soul, to gather hope
To face the truth of that dream we love so much.
Our journey can’t be an epitaph over that stone
If not the honest air among the moonlit nights.
Settle O’ soul, there’s so much peace in passion;
There’s the possibility of life when we are gone.
I will write again, take hues from those petals
And hymn though the marble into the sculpture.

Hope is in those eyes that surround us all through.
We will rise again to peace and fall again in love.

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I stand on this rock and touch the wind.

Here’s a satin draped sculpture in this corner
Of the garden of greatness, cold and white
In marble looking through the tinted threads
Into the hustles of heralded humans murmur.
Seasons do not come and go, but we venture
Through the times wanting to see even more.
We choose to crawl, then walk and part away
To find the light in dark and search each other.

I stand on this rock and touch the wind.

A witness to the winter? The smell of spring?
The torrid tremors of times beaten into gold.
I wish this journey could find me everything,
I wish we never be born again nor grow old,
But stand on this rock and touch the wind.

It’s the wind that will live this love’s tale forever
It’s the rock that will breathe light, life and love.
It’s every beat of the heart that life will choose
To touch every smile on those cold marble lips.
Be the wind that touches you now, be the rock
That teaches you to get carved by time alone.

I stand on this rock and touch the wind.

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In these desolate hours of an unending night,
I see the moonlit rocks cut into the steps of art.
The steps are in stone, the ones so entrenched
Through the times we lived, in the hours of heart.
Why flicker with fate, why foster nests unknown?
Why tamper the torrid tests of time that moan?

The world we know is gone to sleep, now in dream.
The moments stand altogether stronger in rhyme.
Soul knows no scented evening full of velvet course;
The women, the wine, the literature all look grim.
Freedom, that I seek, is no escape but grow my soul
Into a swan that shall cover the waves of reason.

A distant friend, a beauty almost in faraway land;
Not love, nor treason, but souls that I see in dust,
Make these emotions distant, devoid of the death,
Devoid of barren brazen boasting beats of sound.

I will meet you at some crossroad again and ask,
If it meant sense to have covered with the mask.
Am I insane, induced with engulfing enticed illusion?
Or you were the time that chiseled me into a man?

When I meet you, I will ask!

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It was beside a small countryside bush,
Beside a faint greenery tossed in rain,
I put my first paper boat all alone
With shoulders covered by gentle love
And feet so much mounted with faith.
There comes a breeze of ancient life;
There comes an echo that it will sail well.

I turned and saw red little flowers behind;
Plucked them with love and humming
An unknown song, singing to the wind.
The boat with my name moved far to bring
Joy and join the voyage that I dreamt.
It lives the beauty of those flowers still.

There is an ahoy from my mother,
As I sail through the islands of the past
And waves of fluttering wings of souls
That I know are in as much love with life
As with their boats that voyage in time.

There will be rain again and we will make
Our paper boat together with more love.
Our heart knows we will, so it will rain.

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It’s winter and there is cold breeze through the leaves
Hidden in the fog like a myth that will uncover soon;
and bells ringing on temples of ancient gods whom I know,
and hymns filled in the walls of my ear that pray the moon.
Does it all change? Does the face of innocence still glow?

There are flowers of the night still lying on my earth;
There are feathers that tossed in glory and filled the sky.
It’s not a tale, it’s not a night gone by and hours so slow;
A cult of colossal war hymn silenced by love and loss
That echoes between two mountains and like river flow
Into the ocean of life, to be born again to die and cross.

Between ignorance and ego all battles are fought forever;
Between the clever minds, the heart succumbs and shiver
with attempts to admire its own tale of honest moments.
There plays the violin by the sea side, there plays the flute;
There dance is frozen like an iceberg, and an artist paints
Like colours are eternal on this canvas of time together.

If a war can end with words, I will write in love more;
Than take shields of sorrow or settle on the shore.
My verse isn’t vast, but will fill the emptied soul of yours,
When your reason leaves you like a phoenix of course.

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