There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life. more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth, From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree,and it does not rest until it has found one. Then singing, among the savage branches, it pales itself upon the sharpest spine. And dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the larkand the nightingale. One superlative song,existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. for the best is only bought at the cost of great pain....Or so says the legend.This resonates deeply within me because being an RHO negativeMother every Gyno MD advised termination of my unborn a malicious prejudice even called me hybrid race! the medical database is WRONG I SAVED three of my children they were born they live the loves of my life
Its true with me too the best is only acquired at the price of great pain and sacrifice If lucky and awake our heart and own intuition will know to aim for the best Thanks for your time dear poets. The legend piece is anonymous but it came to me and I accepted it as my very own.
and we see it all, as the waves of futures hazily and uncertainty fly over and above me. we look up to the scores of crying stars, lowering...inexorable rotations, over and beyond, permutations through these emotive colours of the dark: of skepticism? of timelessness? winding slowly, downwards, there's no wild here anymore; do you still hear the lark sing?
lark, perched and persistent, upon that willow, and billowing, that screeching wind around you; and willowing, those branches stretched out to guide you; and singing, that song reaching out to hold you; and ages dying, fading away beneath those yellowed branches— now you wait for the advent of spring, an eternal lament of slowed, persistent flowing, of pointed, ageless growing— of wallowing in the hollows and promising in the branches, and leaving in the sunset, and learning in the shade: she flew away, I think, to the edges of the sea.
Curled up, bright yellow petals glinting like glistering metals Trees that rise and bow, silent now Cars rushing into the dark, crushing a slow-moving lark, Cats curled up before a fire ignoring the nearby church choir Singing melodious paeans to god before a stature soaked in blood. A rising bright silver moon floating across the sky too soon Howling dog and wolf scampering across each shadowed roof In that, the foulest night of the year pumped-up with fear, With sepulchral screams hammering the brain, the sane and insane Shackled to the earth before, not after, death.
One sleepless night I heard the lark Chir-chirruping inside my heart; Got up to find her in the dark To capture her and set apart Her stringless resonating harp On which she played a note so sharp; My very soul said: "Hark, oh, hark! What is this iridescent spark
That set my every thought aflame? For in its sound I heard my name! That made my ear and eye so changed That all the world illuminates? It will not let me sleep again Until my every breath is spent!"
I looked and looked and looked in vain But carried with me the refrain So every time I turned around The sound was coming from without; At lenght I closed my tired lids And heard the lark sing from within; And this is how I figured out: I'm not the kindling. I'm the spark!
Caw! Caw! Calls the crow on a crisp fall morning Nevermore! Nevermore! Yells the ravens forewarning The mist lifts into the air As the sun begins to rise The priests are sending up a prayer Babies shouting out their cries The dog down the street going bark! bark! bark! The canary next door gives a little whistle Out of the brush in a hurry ***** a swift lark Away dashes a bunny, straight into the thistle A squirrel chatters away At a cat prowling close Diving in, a daring jay Caught by the cat, almost Never was there a morning So busy as this To hear the birds all chirp and sing To describe in a word…bliss