|
Aprīlis 22., 2015
 | 13:19
e.e.cummings
The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner
the mind is its own beautiful prisoner.
Mind looked long at the sticky moon
opening in dusk her new wings
then decently hanged himself,one afternoon.
The last thing he saw was you
naked amid unnaked things,
your flesh,a succinct wandlike animal,
a little strolling with the futile purr
of blood;your sex squeaked like a billiard-cue
chalking itself,as not to make an error,
with twists spontaneously methodical.
He suddenly tasted worms windows and roses
he laughed,and closed his eyes as a girl closes
her left hand upon a mirror.
|
Comments:
kā es tā biju piemirsusi par viņu!
![[User Picture]](http://klab.lv/userpic/171186/5360) | | From: | ![[info]](http://klab.lv/img/userinfo.gif) kants |
|---|
| Date: | 22. Aprīlis 2015 - 14:44 |
|---|
| | | (Link) |
|
"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 sunlight 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 circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die."
—Mary Elizabeth Frye |
|
|
|
|
|
Sviesta Ciba |
