Translations
Fowls in the wood,
Fishes in the flood;
And I must be Mad,
Much sorrow I walk with
For the best
Of bone and blood.
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Fowls in the wood,
Fishes in the flood;
And I must be Mad,
Much sorrow I walk with
For the best
Of bone and blood.
Among the various ironies in the human conditioning, is its inability to possess prolonged defiance against toils–swap a pauper’s shack for a throne, and soon he forgets how to make ends meet with nothing.
After years not stricken by discomforting sicknesses, I have gone soft against the debilitating elements of a disease. The headache and extreme malaise have overcome me; for the past week, each morning has been a hell of suffocating punishments.
I found my physical strength disobeying me; my mind has settled for weakness, unwilling to command the body to do anything.
What does one do
When frailty rules?
.
.
.
You have to say to yourself, with great and unfaltering confidence, that
“My body is stricken, my mind is feeble, but my SOUL is strong.”
When all earthly hope is lost, confide in the metaphysics.
Someone once said somewhere during sometime,
“In dreams begin responsibilities.”
Was it W.B. Yeats?
Yes.
Start by dreaming,
Envisioning your coming around.
That is vaguely the point,
You have to forge with the greatest, most indestructible ore
The true nature of what constitutes you
That which no man or woman or virus or bacteria or fungus or parasite
Can ever take away.
They can corrode and rot your body
But they cannot mend your soul.
Keep that in mind,
Stay in motion,
And stick to a sound treatment plan.
The palpable
Premonitions—
Hardened, Stubborn
Lumps
Underneath the skin—
Foretell of imminent,
Painful,
Yet gradual
Decease;
The Worst
Of its kind—
Like a daytime Nightmare,
Hunting me
So I shall never
Sleep.
Who knew
Death
Was so Unapologetically
Mischievous?
King of the
Darkest humor,
You leave me
Speechless;
Foreshadowing my
Cease-to-be
With such Irony;
Inflicting
Fear and Sadness
So Immense,
All the while
Having convinced me
That you are
Funny.
What does a creature
So small
Do,
Facing a Force
Grand
Beyond comprehension?
I joke back
And Live this
Day
Like
Any
Other
Day,
But without
A minute of
Complaint.
Wishing to get clean
Once again,
I stand in the shower—
Looking at
Countless droplets
Sliding down
My wax-like skin ,
I wondered
Would they really,
Grazing swiftly past,
With them carry
My Filth away?
Wishing to Rewind
Back to the Swell Ways,
Yet all I want
Is to Forget;
Craving to be Saved,
But I know Sunshine
Is
Days
Away.
“Sometimes
It’s like someone
Took a knife, baby,
Edgy and Dull,
And cut
A Six-Inch Valley
Through the middle
Of my Soul.”
—I’m On Fire, Bruce Springsteen.
The deep sorrows of
The truly good
Rarely show—
Except when they are
Helplessly unveiled
In the mute
Solemn,
And elusive grimace
Of the Angel.
Oh Yes,
We surely have spent
This Daylight
Thinking of
And preparing for
The new Dawn—
All the Grit
And hardy Sweat
Expended
Rebelling against
The Eternal Doubt of
No Tomorrow.
Away from home,
This Year
Ahead of time,
I caught a glimpse
Of the Red and Yellow
Fall—
So that upon
My return,
She had not yet
Arrived.
Knowing that She
Eventually would come,
I ceased to anticipate,
For I had seen it all.
But
She never appeared
Back in town,
As when She took me
By surprise,
I didn’t recognize Her
At all.
She would make Her stay,
Just like the year before,
But She was not
What I saw
Anymore.
Particular Moments 