"etna" poems
Ye hawayen kis or le jayengi mujhe,
Kab tak tere ishq me tadpayegi mujhe,
Na koi manzil na koi thikana raha mera ab,
etna dard dekar, Kab aur kis mor pe tumse milayegi mujhe,
Rukh tere pyar ka begana ** gya,
nahi bhul sakta tujhe main kabhi bhi,
Kyoki Tujhpar mera dil bhi deewana ** gya,
Teri yaadon ne mujhe etna dard diya ki,
Ab mere har lavj shayarana ** gya,
Nahi dekh sakta main tera ye udas chehra
Kyoki tumhari khushi hi meri muskan,
Lag jaye tujhe ye meri sari umar
Kyoki tum hi mere sapne aur tum hi mera jahan,
Kyon ruth gya ye pal mujhse,
Rone laga ye dil bhi jabse pyar hua hai tumse,
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
Tum hi to **
Jo har roj meri sapno mein aati **
Baith us pyare chand ke paas
jo Pyar ka geet sunati **
Muskurate huye dekh tum
mujhe jo etna bebas kar jati **
Jab main tumhe pane ki koshish karta hoon,
Najane kyon tum mujhe chhod us ghane badalo me chhup jati **
Us ghane badalo me chhup jati **
mera dil bhi rota hai
meri aankhen bhi roti hai
jab tum en suni nazaron se ojhal ** jati **
** jata *** mai ek ansuni paheli,
Jab tum mujhe yu mitthe dard dekar jati **
Kash! main bhi es sitara hota,
Najdik se dekhne ka bhi haq hamara hota,
jab ** jati andheri raat
tere saath ka wo pal bhi hamara hota,
Kyon tum sirf kuchh palo ke lia hi aati **
baith us pyare chand ke paas jo pyar ka geet sunati **
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 1:14 AM UTC
Ai dil tu etna beqarar kyon hain,
Jise kabhi na thi teri fikra
wohi tere liye aaj khas kyon hain,
ai dil tu etna beqarar kyon hain. ..
Gam ke saye me ghut ghut ke ji raha hoon,
aanshuo ko apne jaam ki tarah pi raha hoon,
phir bhi meri aankhon me
teri hi aas kyon hain,
Ai dil tu etna beqarar kyon hain,
Ai dil tu etna beqarar kyon hain..
aasman me tujhko dhundhta hoon,
chand ki tarah tujhko pujta hoon,
aankhon me teri jhalak ke liye ek kasak kyon
hain,
ai dil tu etna beqarar kyon hain,
jise kabhi na thi teri fikra
wahi tere lia aaj khas kyon hain..
tumhare lia jo sajaye the sapne humne,
un sapno ko tor kahan chale gye tum,
aaj bhi teri yaadon ke
dil me mere ek khawab kyon hain,
ai dil tu etna beqarar kyon hain ..
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Tu meri aakhiri abhilasha,
Pyar karle tu mujhse jara sa,
etna bhi mat ban anjan tu,
waqt dede apna thora sa,
Tu meri aakhiri abhilasha,
Tu meri aakhiri abhilasha. ...
wothon par meri muskan teri hain,
**** me mere jaan teri hain,
Dil to samjhta hain sirf pyar ki bhasha,
Tu meri aakhiri abhilasha. ..,
Tere bin sari duniya suna sa,
Rahne laga hoon main mra mra sa,
Mud ke dekh lo sanam jara sa,
tu meri aakhiri abhilasha,
tu meri aakhiri abhilasha.. .. ..
Jab se tera main ** gya hoon,
tere khawabo me kho gya hoon,
Kyon khafa ** mujhse bata do zara sa,
tu meri aakhiri abhilasha.. .,
tere dard ko maine apna bna liya,
apni sari khushi tujhpe luta diya,
Kyoki do dilo ka milan hi hota hain
pyar ki paribhasha,
Tu meri aakhiri abhilasha,
tu meri aakhiri abhilasha.. ..
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
1146
When Etna basks and purrs
Naples is more afraid
Than when she show her Garnet Tooth—
Security is loud—
3.8k
Ye lamhe aaj kyon Etna udàas hai,
In lamhon ko aaj bhi kisi saksh Ki aas hai,
Wo samjhte hain hum bhul gye unko,
Par aaj bhi en aankhon me sirf unka hi vas hai,
Jaise tuti daali ko pani aur mitti Ki hoti taalash hai,
Waise hi es tute dil ko tumhari jhalak aur pyar Ki aas hai,
Dekho na ek baar palat Ke humko,
Meri zindagi aaj kitni udaas hai,
Kitni udaas hai,
Kai varash bit gye hai sath sirf unka ehsaas hai,
Pyar rahega unse jabtak es saksh mein saans hai,
Jis din chhod hamesha Ke liye jayenge hum,
Kuchh aansoo aapke bhi aankhon se tapkenge ye es dil ko viswas hai,
Es tute dil ka viswas hai.......
I love u............(•_•)
Sad moments,,,,,,,,,,
मनीष कुमार श्रीवास्तव
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC
A hollow ‘hello’ from Hell! Yes, from Hell.
Where do names come from? This Hell is
a sleepy fishing village and the best
spot that we’ve found on Hollow Head,
a Sleepy Hollows, so to speak.
We are in the ‘Bridegroom’, a little Bed
and Breakfast, run by a Rip Van Winkle
wise enough to know it was Empedocles
who jumped into Mount Etna. Empedocles!
Is my face red! Yet it will glorify
my pronoun to perfection—‘he jumps’. Yes,
both poetry and philosophy ought
to have the same antecedent. They forge
a world that’s capable of consciousness.
The self, per se, remains vestigial—
the voice of the volcano, not its source.
Your pronoun is the antecedent, not
your noun. Problematic resolved. Perhaps
I will go for a walk in Hell, perhaps
I will take the air, take the breezes.
A wonderful day in Hell! Ha-ha!
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth;
When Infancy’s years of probation expire,
Perchance, I may strive to distinguish my birth.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal’d,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal’d,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my ***** for fame
Bids me live, but to hope for Posterity’s praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded their breath,
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion’s full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight, in the friendship of fools?
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters, of love,
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.
To me what is wealth?—it may pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?—the phantom of power;
To me what is fashion?—I seek but renown.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the days of my youth?
2.3k
I woke upon this winter’s morn,
with Christmas in my heart,
despite the news across the earth,
and grayness it imparts.
Reports of quakes and Etna,
with its crest blown to the sky,
while Central Sulawes’ floods,
chased people for their lives.
In Syria, its people mourn,
the tears and blood they’ve shed,
their civil war, it rages still,
marks eight years with its dead.
The fires that swept our golden state,
left thousands without homes,
its victims living now in tents,
with nothing of their own.
While winds of last year’s hurricanes,
have raged on southern shores,
in Florida and eastern coasts,
all shook us to the core.
The caravan of people fled,
from countries to the south,
have braved too much already,
for a wall to shut them out.
Our country, now divided,
on beliefs we hold too close,
while people spew their hatred at,
those who challenge them the most.
And those who are in power,
cannot see beyond their nose,
to what tomorrow wants from us,
and what our world needs most.
But still, I see the kindness,
and the love in passersby,
when someone gives a hand to those,
who need it more than I.
I see the hope in children’s eyes,
where love and truth prevail,
when treated as tomorrow’s hope,
when peace on earth has failed.
So let us focus on the grace,
so often overlooked,
and make our resolution be,
to share our love on earth!
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
422
More Life—went out—when He went
Than Ordinary Breath—
Lit with a finer Phosphor—
Requiring in the Quench—
A Power of Renowned Cold,
The Climate of the Grave
A Temperature just adequate
So Anthracite, to live—
For some—an Ampler Zero—
A Frost more needle keen
Is necessary, to reduce
The Ethiop within.
Others—extinguish easier—
A Gnat’s minutest Fan
Sufficient to obliterate
A Tract of Citizen—
Whose Peat lift—amply vivid—
Ignores the solemn News
That Popocatapel exists—
Or Etna’s Scarlets, Choose—
1.8k
I could dive into your love,
And spread your lips with ease,
I could take you up to heaven,
You could take me where you please,
With all your might why don't you,
Hold my branch so tight,
And gently stroke the bark,
So i can stand upright.
I'll aim for the tunnel,
The honey-pot of gold,
And swoop with such tenderness,
Just like blue movies told,
I'll caress the upper mounds,
While down below I'll play,
We'll be the image of unity,
Like two statues erected in clay.
I'll spin you 'round to face the mirror,
With your back so kindly turned,
And deep into another cave,
You'll feel my spirited sword burn,
Like Mount Etna i shall erupt,
You are now down on your knees,
I'll spray over you my water,
Like the waves from violent seas.
You'll swiftly motivate your tongue,
To taste the salty drops,
As Etna starts to calm himself,
And the mighty eruption stops,
We, entwined like two vines,
Shall rest our throbbing hearts,
At peace, at ease, in loving times,
Like swans that never part.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
There was an Old Person from Gretna,
Who rushed down the crater of Etna;
When they said, 'Is it hot?'
He replied, 'No, it's not!'
That mendacious Old Person of Gretna.
1.4k
This city is drowning
not everywhere, not yet,
but I remember when the waters rose up
and swallowed Etna
Millvale
Girtys Run completely consumed
but I was fine
up on the cliff home
just watching
as homes became islands in the flood plane
the waters settled like glass
as silt sank to the bottom
where there should have been grass,
there were clouds
and it was beautiful.
But I remember after the water left
and the caked filth of the world stuck around
I never want it to happen again
but it will
the city is drowning
but we learned to swim
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
This is one of Barry Hodges "Memories" poems.
**O how I recall with sadness in my poor forsaken heart
How I lost my fat-arsed sister (though she was a silly ****
We had just enjoyed a meal on the esplanade at Taormina
(soup, spaghetti alla vongole followed by some tasty semolina)
So we went for a digestive walk through the Sicilian hills
Not realising we were in for some awful shocks and spills.
There came a mighty roar and a dreadful smell of sulphur
(even worse than flatulence or a burp caused by little Maria's peptic ulcer)
Oh dear, oh dear, Mount Etna had just violently erupted
With lava bursting out, from the bowels of earth rudely eructed,
And with a sickening splodge a fiery lump landed on the hapless bird
Causing her to die forthwith, screaming louder than I'd ever heard.
God in his mysterious ways is supposed to show us his mighty wonders
But occasionally I do believe he quite clearly makes some ******* blunders;
And I really think it's quite unfair to cause a volcano to blow up
Especially since it looked a nice mountain for bold climbers to go up;
But it's an ill wind that blows no one any good has always been my motto
So I emptied Maria's scorched purse, went to a bar and got quite blotto.**
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
“oh, how they will all bet on morrows that strain rills after dark,
and yet the Game, unpitying, regains its lordly behest at dawn;
lean back and feel the turn of things, the chance, the risk, the almost...
ante!”
⋮
this mania!
when it wreathes,
the imperceptible of myself,
it drains through me, sedulously,
hands aquiver, sight fretful,
and the bath of wanting (and not, ergo),
spewing and fusing
inside the etna of my inlying.
you are, then, obedience itself,
long before the grapevine,
before the Cards;
rails tarnishing, yet begrimed steel,
rather ossein, or thew,
turning to a suttee so pale, it forgets its ills.
and the trains;
yes, they were gushing, though not afore;
“did you think they would arrive for you?”
they smelt into clag,
into a mist of faces, barren,
swelling and shrieking of throe,
snaking, snaking down the spine of
the Stake.
slaves betting with their ilk of ardor,
when a match struck, belatedly,
but already it is leaning toward cinders,
its shine no more
than a laugh of people,
leaving the hall shivery in its bleat,
charcoals sighing their waning,
others honing their exit.
bitterly, bitterly, i am
left with nothing to hold but smoke.
but time, ah, time,
the nimble Host,
old trickster with his cuffs of lithe,
shuffling cloaks for loose change.
he and i,
always at the same table,
and i know his favorite sleight:
to grant the boastful player
a losing hand,
and winning eyes.
the coin is tossed,
to the Parlay; so soon cast,
so soon swallowed by the piker.
the crowd, they clap for a name,
but it is never genius they are crowning,
only luck,
foremost Dealer,
with that last word,
smiling as he lays it down:
only the blind Card turned upward.
~~~
and i,
sitting with my empty cup,
still growing a taste for losing
foolish, surely,
but the loss only deepens the greed,
doubles it, whets it past the reach of will.
so ring then, coin,
dull as you are, tattered,
clattering against the floorboards.
it tells me i am counted,
measured,
already spent.
yes, yes, it is only a caprice,
but it hews, it digs,
it laughs where no mouths are,
and i laugh back;
ante!
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 6:33 PM UTC
You ask no questions; I provide the answers.
Greetings, my friend! We have moved on from Hell.
Today I stand in surf up to my knees.
Imagine: liquid rock, a steaming sea,
the battle of fire with water, land
like iron being forged, the earth refreshed.
We must make this moment a postcard from
infinity. My friend, I need your help.
This message, like our hope for life itself,
must be left unattributed. It must
be left an unresolved antecedent.
Think of Empedocles poised at the mouth
of that volcano, Etna’s edge. He is
about to enter this world’s soul. He is about
to die. We are all thrown into the world.
Empedocles, the poet philosopher,
must hear a voice from far into
the future, a voice from today that will
insure his resurrection, one
to clarify his immortality.
Write something in the sand for him to see.
'There was something more,
something more divine,
more bestial…'
Write that. Leave it unsigned.
'For I have been ere now a boy and a girl,
a bush and a bird and a dumb fish in the sea.'
Write that. Knowledge will come.
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 4:52 PM UTC
The waterlogged lands have long gone dry
The soil is lying cracked and parched
The frogs that crocked in shallow pools,
Nowhere on land or water to be seen
The once full river has thinned and narrowed
Into a greasy smudge of faded stain
On the long yard of brown earth
The road is a burning stretch of black
Sure it can make the water steam and sizzle
Quicker than in an electric ***
The sun is seen a flaming ball in the sky
Darting down spears of smarting beams
Heat like a spiteful scorpion’s sting
Burns the flesh and the bared scalp
Watermelons or chilled buttermilk
Cannot douse the midday heat
The fiery tongue of humid summer
Licks up the last residue of green
The woods dread the fall of a spark
That can ignite an inferno, anytime
The cattle stay still with frothy foam
Dripping down from their drooping tongues
A thirsty crow beside a dried up pond
Looks around for a drop of water
(But alas, not as lucky as the parable crow
That finds a jar of half filled elixir)
A line of black ants carry a carcass
Clambering up the cracked stump of a tree
The brown grass sings
And the Etna seethes!
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
******** Armageddon!
So, did we get it on?
Bliss and satiation,
Or was it Armageddon?
Are you still in Australia?
Like Vesuvius and Etna!
Daze in stupefaction-----
How did this compare to Armageddon?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
Hermosísimo invierno de mi vida,
sin estivo calor constante yelo,
a cuya nieve da cortés el cielo
púrpura en tiernas flores encendida;
esa esfera de luz enriquecida,
que tiene por estrella al dios de Delo,
¿cómo en la elemental guerra del suelo
reina de sus contrarios defendida?
Eres Scitia de l'alma que te adora,
cuando la vista, que te mira, inflama;
Etna, que ardientes nieves atesora.
Sí lo frágil perdonas a la fama,
eres al vidro parecida, Flora,
que siendo yelo, es hijo de la llama.
888
Mausam bsh aate jata h
Kbhi khusiyon ki bahaar lata h
to kabhi aanshuon ka sehelab
Kbhi mithi si muskaan
To kbhi udasiyon ka toofan
Jo saari khusiyon ko apne saath bha kr le jata h
Mausam to bsh bdlne ka naam hota h
Wo kbhi v smaan nhi rhta
Qki esh jagat ka ek maatr sch h bdlaao
Chahe wo bdlaao mausam ka ** waqt ka ** haalat ka ** taqdeer ka ** ya fir khudh insaan ka
Jese sardi k waqt kmbl ki garmi ka jarurat hota h
pr garmi K waqt wo jarurat bdl jata h
Tik wese hi insaano k mijaj m bdlaao aata h or unki soch m v
Jo waqt K saath nhi bdlte wo piche hi rh jaate h
Kehene ka arth bsh etna h badlaao zindagi ka mull aadhar h
Or mausam v usse pre nhi h
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 7:19 AM UTC
Voici juin. Le moineau raille
Dans les champs les amoureux ;
Le rossignol de muraille
Chante dans son nid pierreux.
Les herbes et les branchages,
Pleins de soupirs et d'abois,
Font de charmants rabâchages
Dans la profondeur des bois.
La grive et la tourterelle
Prolongent, dans les nids sourds,
La ravissante querelle
Des baisers et des amours.
Sous les treilles de la plaine,
Dans l'antre où verdit l'osier,
Virgile enivre Silène,
Et Rabelais Grandgousier.
O Virgile, verse à boire !
Verse à boire, ô Rabelais !
La forêt est une gloire ;
La caverne est un palais !
Il n'est pas de lac ni d'île
Qui ne nous prenne au gluau,
Qui n'improvise une idylle,
Ou qui ne chante un duo.
Car l'amour chasse aux bocages,
Et l'amour pêche aux ruisseaux,
Car les belles sont les cages
Dont nos coeurs sont les oiseaux.
De la source, sa cuvette,
La fleur, faisant son miroir,
Dit : -Bonjour,- à la fauvette,
Et dit au hibou : -Bonsoir.
Le toit espère la gerbe,
Pain d'abord et chaume après ;
La croupe du boeuf dans l'herbe
Semble un mont dans les forêts.
L'étang rit à la macreuse,
Le pré rit au loriot,
Pendant que l'ornière creuse
Gronde le lourd chariot.
L'or fleurit en giroflée ;
L'ancien zéphyr fabuleux
Souffle avec sa joue enflée
Au fond des nuages bleus.
Jersey, sur l'onde docile,
Se drape d'un beau ciel pur,
Et prend des airs de Sicile
Dans un grand haillon d'azur.
Partout l'églogue est écrite :
Même en la froide Albion,
L'air est plein de Théocrite,
Le vent sait par coeur Bion,
Et redit, mélancolique,
La chanson que fredonna
Moschus, grillon bucolique
De la cheminée Etna.
L'hiver tousse, vieux phtisique,
Et s'en va; la brume fond ;
Les vagues font la musique
Des vers que les arbres font.
Toute la nature sombre
Verse un mystérieux jour ;
L'âme qui rêve a plus d'ombre
Et la fleur a plus d'amour.
L'herbe éclate en pâquerettes ;
Les parfums, qu'on croit muets,
Content les peines secrètes
Des liserons aux bleuets.
Les petites ailes blanches
Sur les eaux et les sillons
S'abattent en avalanches ;
Il neige des papillons.
Et sur la mer, qui reflète
L'aube au sourire d'émail,
La bruyère violette
Met au vieux mont un camail ;
Afin qu'il puisse, à l'abîme
Qu'il contient et qu'il bénit,
Dire sa messe sublime
Sous sa mitre de granit.
Granville, juin 1836.
535
Dharam K naam or hote dange h
Dharam K naam pe khote insaniyt h
Akhir yh dharam h kya
Hindu, muslim, eshahi
Kya hm kisi K khun s dharam ka pta lga sakte h
Fir yh dharam nibhana etna jaruri q h
Q dharam K naam pe insaano ko bata jata h
Kya dharam h sarwopari h
To fir yh insaaniyt Kay h
agr insaaniyt nibhane K liye dharam ki maryada tuti to yh paap kese h
Q un dange pashad m Kuch maasum bchcho ki masumiyt chinta yh smaaj h
Aakhir dharam kese bdha hua jb wo glt rash m hi le jata h
aakhir q yh log dharam K arth ko bigaar rhe h
Or jhuti insaaniyt K naam or insaan ko maar rhi h
Aakhir q?
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 1:00 PM UTC
Vicomte de Foucault, lorsque vous empoignâtes
L'éloquent Manuel de vos mains auvergnates,
Comme l'océan bout quand tressaille l'Etna,
Le peuple tout entier s'émut et frissonna ;
On vit, sombre lueur, poindre mil huit cent trente
L'antique royauté, fière et récalcitrante,
Chancela sur son trône, et dans ce noir moment
On sentit commencer ce vaste écroulement ;
Et ces rois, qu'on punit d'oser toucher un homme,
Etaient grands, et mêlés à notre histoire en somme,
Ils avaient derrière eux des siècles éblouis,
Henri quatre et Coutras, Damiette et saint-Louis.
Aujourd'hui, dans Paris, un prince de la pègre,
Un pied plat, copiant Faustin, singe d'un nègre,
Plus faux qu'Ali pacha, plus cruel que Rosas,
Fourre en prison la loi, met la gloire à Mazas,
Chasse l'honneur, le droit, les probités punies,
Orateurs, généraux, représentants, génies,
Les meilleurs serviteurs du siècle et de l'état,
Et c'est tout ! et le peuple, après cet attentat,
Souffleté mille fois sur ces faces illustres,
Va voir de l'Elysée étinceler les lustres,
Ne sent rien sur sa joue, et contemple César !
Lui, souverain, il suit en esclave le char !
Il regarde danser dans le Louvre les maîtres,
Ces immondes faisant vis-à-vis à ces traîtres,
La fraude en grand habit, le meurtre en apparat,
Et le ventre Berger près du ventre Murat !
On dit : - vivons ! adieu grandeur, gloire, espérance ! -
Comme si, dans ce monde, un peuple appelé France,
Alors qu'il n'est plus libre, était encor vivant !
On boit, on mange, on dort, on achète et l'on vend,
Et l'on vote, en riant des doubles fonds de l'urne
Et pendant ce temps-là, ce gredin taciturne,
Ce chacal à sang froid, ce corse hollandais,
Etale, front d'airain, son crime sous le dais,
Gorge d'or et de vin sa bande scélérate,
S'accoude sur la nappe, et cuvant, noir pirate,
Son guet-apens français, son guet-apens romain,
Mâche son cure-dents taché de sang humain !
Jersey, le 20 mai 1853.
440
tú sie zgíná, dziób, píngwiná (missing fish-nets of the tetragrammaton h); aches, hay-t-cheeses... hence the acute a, á... ah! grave a? à? ha ha!
translation?
here's were a penguin's beak bends.
saying that... the roman had really
long handshakes...
they didn't exactly go hand-in-hand,
they greeted someone with their
entire forearms...
they bonded at the height,
nearing the elbow...
i guess in "sign language",
the romans wouldn't show you
the middle finger... or the welsh:
longbowmen versus the french
prior to battle, akin to the two,
or a V (the story is,
the french would cut off their index
and middle finger, so they wouldn't
be able to shoot arrows)...
i guess the roman **** you*,
would have to be equated by:
showing the elbow...
what with the long handshake,
where you didn't actually shake
someone's hand... but bonded by putting
your hand, pretty close to the elbow joint...
and nothing shook...
perhaps the volcano that was, and still
is: mt. etna...
but if you were scarce for words,
and you wanted to tact out:
have a nice time, see you in hell!
you wouldn't show them the middle finger...
you'd
show the elbow...
and say:
this is where a penguin's beak curves!
or: tu sie zgina... dziób, pingwina!
see the variation between my own interpretation
and the orthodox measure? well... ultra
of such a suggestion, would actually include
a tail on the e: i.e. ę, in the word się...
but i'm of farmer stock, so i don't bother
the urbanites in their: ooh ooh ah, mm, hmm...
what's what?
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC