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Jul 2
Creative longing
   in wind
     blowing
   along ripples, through reed and rose,
         its dark face
     sensed in melting snows,
       water enamored of no place,
               its dark joy
   vibrantly in the ice sculptor's smile,
     the ice figures melting all the while.
             Creative longing is
      when comparing loses hold,
      striving loses hold,
      clinging loses hold,
      intellect loses hold.
Unknowing, a lily is yet in bloom,
         exuberance of perfume.
Intellect grasps, plans, always prepares,
divides, derides, and multiplies cares.
      Intelligence is intelligence:
        it has no plan or thought,
   the pattern emerging and never sought.
      Most simple, subtler than air,
        it does everything and is beyond compare.
       Intelligence is intelligence.
Oozing freshness like sap of spring,
                    glimmering
           as though a lake were glimmering
                                                    fo­r the first time,
       precise and piercing like a bird's cry
                     at twilight,
           calm and embracing like the night,
             passionate like green leaves,
                 intelligence perceives.
There's no compass in me, no needle's turning,
    but a wideness, a sky, a yearning
      that feathers neither for that nor this,          
                drawing dawn's first kiss.
   Treetops, lake, and dawn
             are beautiful,
             and the creative longing
                                               goes on...
Yacov Mitchenko
Written by
Yacov Mitchenko
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