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We waited – waited – waited…
For that which
We knew

Just killed the time till killing time…
With small and

We seemed to ride upon a dream…
That faded with
Slow with

And in the end, the curtains closed…
Without a

the door creeks

"Ah, I've been waiting it for weeks."

"It's surely the Reaper, the final undertaker."

waiting for nothing

"Maybe, he has another job. The door creeked, but he sent one of his helldog to do the job."

the void avoids my thoughts

"Hellhound or a fluffy bunny, stop me feeling so moody."

"Somebody, take my thoughts and take me voice. Not to feel more sore."


Je suis orpailleur
Je vis d'or et d'eau bien fraîche
En attendant Godot.
Je plonge dans les entrailles de ma muse
Armé de piolet, pelle et battée.
Je sonde à belles dents le fil des eaux
Je me prélasse dans le lit de la rivière
Et jette dans la battée sable, eaux et graviers
A la recherche inlassable
Des paillettes couleur de colza et de tournesol
Sélectionnées et assaisonnées par ma Muse
Jusqu'à ce qu'elles se précipitent et fondent.
Je me nourris d'elles et elles de moi
Elles me mâchent et me mastiquent
Pour faire jaillir en moi des geysers d'huile philosophale
En attendant les lingots de Godot.

Et dans chaque mot que je dédie à ma muse
J'engloutis ses carats nature
Sans colorant artificiel
Sans huile de palme
Sans conservateur
Car je conserve en moi les pépites
À l'abri de la lumière jalouse de God-haut.
Gaye Sep 2015
I’ve been waiting for so long,
On the road that never ends
Migrating between seasons to my
Pastoral lands north and south
Searching for your unfamiliar face
In forest foothills, swarming buses
And basins next to the Ganges.
I can wait till the moon hits the sea
The time- till you come, till you come.

Flashing lights, chiming bells,
Inscent sticks and a peculiar charm-
You carried, they said.
But you’re flesh and blood for me
Truth and reality knotted between
My garland of jasmine flowers.
I can wait with full heart and glistening eyes
Till you come, till you come.

There is no haste, I’m anticipating an upcoming
There is no starry blanket or mount chariot
But there are fireflies and a summer sun
Playing peekaboo with my shadow
Behind the mangrove forest
Envisaging your ticket to this world.
A crew of lasses claims and expects you
But you’re beyond love they could conceive.
Let the world scream, cry and yell
I still can wait till you come, till you come.

You’re a friend, philosopher and guide
I adore, worship and awaits your arrival.
Merchant ladies who walked my hut
Asked me all day to keep a ghee lamp
I lit a thousand lamps and still you dint-
Walk my shed. This life is not long enough
To witness thy face, eternal and mysterious
I can wait till you come, till you come.

The journey is beautiful, endless and offhand,
Walking through lanes strangely acknowledged
But there’s a feeling familiar still so odd.
The walk is not to say good bye but it’s a quest,
A prayer to reach your mountain nest.
There is the world- cirrus and starry nights
I can escape for the time forever from tides-
That counts the time- to the unknown!
I can’t wait, till you come, till you come.
you dislike the kisses I give you
you say no to the rubs on your back
pushing my hand away
pushing me away
pushing my love away

woe to you, I see you now
jumping to the beats of my new Bentley
gnashing your teeth to the screech of my thick rubber
waiting on my love like Godot
I see you man

I see you wanting to be the center
the center that you were
the center that you want to always be
the center that YOU WILL BE NO MORE
Reference: Waiting on Godot by Samuel Beckett
Mark Lecuona Jan 2015
I do not know if what I say to the questions of our absurd existence
is a suggestion or an offer of supposition inherited from the dreams
of a previous life or the dreams of my ancestors

It is not enough to be loved by a silent creator because we must entertain ourselves while we wait for the one who cannot be described except within the limited knowledge we possess of our own being

The question of taking oneself seriously must be answered with regard
to the value we place upon ourselves; are we special because we say so
or because we are loved by a parent we have never met?

But could it be the love of a child that makes us special in that the innocence of children protects their worth as what they desire from us protects our worth as the desire for one another protects our collective worth?

I once found the pursuit of my desires to be the path to meaning; it was as if pleasure was God but it was a God of selfishness and the pursuit of my own glory and when the truth was revealed I became nothing

Is it the impossibility of sustaining the meaning of life for its own
sake that draws forth the belief in the supernatural while simultaneously abdicating a belief in our ability to be empathetic towards those who share our fate?

— The End —