From ever the time
we can count, this is the lot
of the artist, of the subtle
and unseen, the lover
who sees with the heart:
withdrawal
from the workings of this
insensitive world,
where violence rules, and
vengeance is justified.
A wheel set in motion
of long that has
no end in sight,
of which, no solution
but to
renounce.
The only way, one who feels
may hope to do anything
is by self-transformation.
In the hour of solitude
by a brook or the tide
when the wind turns a page
in the wild, the eternal can
whisper to the soul:
and in this, the deliverance
for one who
sees with the heart.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
From ever the time
we can count, this is the lot
of the artist, of the subtle
and unseen, the lover
who sees with the heart:
withdrawal
from the workings of this
insensitive world,
where violence rules, and
vengeance is justified.
A wheel set in motion
of long that has
no end in sight,
of which, no solution
but to
renounce.
The only way, one who feels
may hope to do anything
is by self-transformation.
In the hour of solitude
by a brook or the tide
when the wind turns a page
in the wild, the eternal can
whisper to the soul:
and in this, the deliverance
for one who
sees with the heart.
there's just too much wrong with the world, and often, the choice is between the bad and the worse...
