Your outgrown shadow still follows you faithfully, with due silence; you still stand hesitantly, putting one foot after the other, pondering over the paraphernalia of your wasteful, shipwrecked life, because the ethereal telephone voice has frozen into a silence; the mill wheels of Time are slowly grinding you down, just like anyone else who was not lazy to scrape up some chestnuts for himself first.

Between stifled reproaches, you still excuse yourself with your childish naivety, you. what haven't you done for this, or for that vile, nothing promise. Confrontation is in many cases unavoidable; not only in the showcase of exhibitionist superficiality - but rather in the depths of spiritual immersion, because it reflects the grotesque-nonsense Present.

The unspoken truth grows inside you, consumed, which you deliberately keep to yourself so that you won't be fired or advised to leave one day. - Inside, it would have been better if you had lined yourself with patience, so that you could have faced the petty weaknesses of others more boldly. You are standing in front of gates locked with a hammer-heavy key, but you have already passed forty years, and you can no longer turn back at will to change what you thought could be changed; because you tremble inside like overstretched strings, and you are rather just naively and childishly ashamed of yourself, you cannot protest, since the permanent, corrosive dark river of bitterness flows through your overworked veins.

And no matter how firmly you stand on the foundations of your selfish protest that you believed to be stable, you remain alone, so that you don't have to deny yourself endlessly again!

I used to burn my poems,
Seeing the words fade into smoke,
Now i bury them in notebooks
My mother will find
After i'm buried.

What need have I for a gaze like wine,
That shows me but shadows, and grants no sign?
What worth is an eye that weaves its tales,
Yet Your veiled beauty, it fails to define?

What use are the forms that drown in the night,
If love does not seek them, nor hearts ignite?
They are but illusions — fleeting and dim,
Songs of mirage, not passion’s true hymn.

Your face — the last veil of all that is hidden,
A whisper of light, yet never unbidden.
So I lowered my gaze, though vision is mine,
Not out of blindness, nor ailment’s sign.

But a shape of hope it has now become,
That even in darkness, Your light has come.
If You choose to appear, let it be through the shade,
Where hearts are lit, and the soul is remade.

These eyes are not fit to behold You unveiled,
But the soul sings of You — in silence, it wailed.
You are a flame that cannot be tamed,
No string of the soul by You is claimed.

A light too distant for eyes to attain,
Yet hearts that are kindled may catch its flame.
And if my heart glows with Your gentle grace,
Then seeing You not — still leaves no trace.

what is the shortest poem ever written?


There is no single, universally agreed-upon "shortest poem ever written," but some common contenders include Strickland Gillilan's "Fleas" (Adam. Had 'em.), Muhammad Ali's "Me? Whee!!", and Aram Saroyan's single-letter poem (a four-legged "m") which the Guinness Book of World Records once listed as the shortest.


Commonly cited examples:

"Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes" / "Fleas" by Strickland Gillilan: This couplet, "Adam. Had 'em," is often cited as the shortest poem in the English language.

"Me? Whee!!" by Muhammad Ali: After a Harvard commencement speech, Ali responded to a request for the world's shortest poem with this couplet.

Aram Saroyan's "m" poem: This poem consists of a single letter, a specially designed four-legged version of the letter "m", which was recognized by the Guinness Book of World Records at one time.

But without a doubt, the shortest poem ever writ,
will never be by yours so truly,
unless you will consider his rhyming name,
of three syllables a suitable contender

Nat Lip Stadt

( ok forget that)

The irresolvable contradiction, in whose subconscious formula this current absurd-impossible World is immersed, first it turns into non-existence, then it organically emerges into the stagnant Nothingness. The ostrich-faithful gangs of yampecs, like the circus associations of the self-deceivers, seem to even play together a little in the manner of accomplices in the intercontinental businesses of gamblers - because a restless, wandering Soul has long since become a cat and has been tempting the son of man, because there is no partiality, no special difference in a prolonged, incessant Sisyphusian fall. It feels the numbing cracks of the rotting decompositions, while those who remain on the surface are constantly eviscerating the last pennies and silver coins from the pockets of the simpler, working average; Even pitifully degrading bureaucratic wisdom cannot be quite adequate these days: dignity and existence exclude each other just as feudal lords exclude a compromising servant.

Free-thinking is not at all chic these days, they are quite calmly content with merely the illusion of truth as long as possible. Now imported idolatry is becoming more and more popular again, but very much so. Because in the guaranteed transitional age, no one and nothing can be themselves, or the same as they were as long as the laws of humanism were observed, the message of conscious blind indifference seems to have been deliberately transplanted into another blind world.

Like startled fish embryos, apocryphal passwords glide, wrinkles write the warning message on the secret prison walls of faces: "Pay attention, and rather hide in hiding!" - Every circle must organically close at some point. The wasted seasons are no longer waiting for a silver star ready to wander. It's time to ventilate the soul-crushing stuffiness that is welling up in man!

Every spiritual wound is filled with little dawning cracks. It seems that actions and consequences no longer have a beginning or an end; how and how can they be connected to the Respite Times?! As if the questions you have decided or just wanted to ask could simply be thrown into a gaping abyss with a final will. A drowning need would drive one person after another to seek not only the light-blooded joys of being, but also the lawful security of the Soul, because even newborn words cannot be licked up by the mother tongue. The ebb and flow of the tides regularly leave their footprints here in the solidified whirlpools of Existence, intended as testimony.

More and more people would ask inquiringly:
"How is it possible that a person is homeless even in his beating heart, when he has a Beloved who cherishes him like an angel and comforts him?!" - There is no answer, or perhaps there was none. The cross-section of the faces has always been scratched by the retained pearls.

As if everything grows back behind those who have crossed the green border without return. Man gets further and further from himself, yet inside he goes deeper and deeper, to find what he has always been looking for in the Odyssey of knowledge; for he is both a prisoner and a sucker, who has let himself be consciously exploited, in every case it is necessary to defy misunderstandings, the cowardly feeling capitulates. A stifled reproach - that is not much - and the whole World is ready to sweep the many sins, offenses, and filth under the rug.