These days have ebbed
as Love's swell was checked:
the waters in some places
- all but dammed!

But now at last
I sense the rising tide
and thank Temese
for the current's turn;
now following that great writhing snake
to where its pulsing head will rake;
over the mucky soiled watery beds
of Woolwich
Greenwich
Limehouse
- and under -
Tower Bridge

     To that great gloating sight
                A crown of a billion lights
     Blazing day and night:
                And somewhere within
     In the slick oily warmth
                Our flood tides mesh,
     As over each other we wash.

Hard thrusts
wicked deep cuts
given and received
are recorded in that great mirror smoked!
where with a tug and a shove
on the banks
in the streets
through the loopy twists
everything prospers in the glow
as the decades decaying flow;
each ***** bud
red with new blood
one after t'other
flowers
before their purple petals scatter.

Let's on the luck o' the dice
(you 'n' me!)
ride out
on the flotsam and jetsom
that has carried us this far
and as pleases
merge.

Translated into English in 1859 by Edward FitzGerald

I.
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

II.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

III.
And, as the **** crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted -- "Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."

IV.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

V.
Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one Knows;
But still the Vine her ancient ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.

VI.
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!" -- the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.

VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly -- and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life kep falling one by one.

IX.
Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.

X.
But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hatim Tai cry Supper -- heed them not.

XI.
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot --
And Peace is Mahmud on his Golden Throne!

XII.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread, -- and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness --
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

XIII.
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Promise go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

XIV.
Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spin
The Thread of present Life away to win --
What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall
Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!

XV.
Look to the Rose that blows about us -- "Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:
At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."

XVI.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes -- or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two -- is gone.

XVII.
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

XVIII.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two and went his way.

XIX.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter -- the Wild ***
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

**.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

XXI.
And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean --
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

XXII.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears --
To-morrow? -- Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.

XXIII.
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.

XXIV.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend, ourselves to make a Couch -- for whom?

XXV.
Ah, make the most of what we may yet spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie;
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and -- sans End!

XXVI.
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! Your Reward is neither Here nor There!"

XXVII.
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are ******
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Works to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

XXVIII.
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

XXIX.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about; but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.

***.
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd --
"I came like Water and like Wind I go."

XXXI.
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing,
Nor Whence, like Water *****-nilly flowing:
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, *****-nilly blowing.

XXXII.
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-Knot of Human Fate.

XXXIII.
There was the Door to which I found no Key:
There was the Veil through which I could not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was -- and then no more of Thee and Me.

XXXIV.
Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
And -- "A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied.

XXXV.
Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the secret Well of Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd -- "While you live,
Drink! -- for, once dead, you never shall return."

XXXVI.
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And merry-make, and the cold Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take -- and give!

XXXVII.
For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd -- "Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"

XXXVIII.
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?

XXXIX.
Ah, fill the Cup: -- what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!

XL.
A Moment's Halt -- a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste --
And Lo! the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from -- Oh, make haste!

XLI.
Oh, plagued no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to itself resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.

XLII.
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavor and dispute;
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, fruit.

XLIII.
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

XLIV.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas -- the Grape!

XLV.
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The subtle Alchemest that in a Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.

XLVI.
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse -- why, then, Who set it there?

XLVII.
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some corner of the Hubbub couch'd,
Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.

XLVIII.
For in and out, above, about, below,
'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.

XLIX.
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.

L.
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their fellows, and to Sleep return'd.

LI.
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Is't not a shame -- Is't not a shame for him
So long in this Clay suburb to abide?

LII.
But that is but a Tent wherein may rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another guest.

LIII.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And after many days my Soul return'd
And said, "Behold, Myself am Heav'n and Hell."

LIV.
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerg'd from, shall so soon expire.

LV.
While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyam and ruby vintage drink:
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee -- take that, and do not shrink.

LVI.
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, should lose, or know the type no more;
The Eternal Saki from the Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbls like us, and will pour.

LVII.
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh but the long long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.

LVIII.
'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.

LIX.
The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left, as strikes the Player goes;
And he that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all -- He knows -- HE knows!

LX.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

LXI.
For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
Of what they will, and what they will not -- each
Is but one Link in an eternal Chain
That none can slip, nor break, nor over-reach.

LXII.
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to it for help -- for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

LXIII.
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

LXIV.
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

LXV.
I tell You this -- When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung,
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul.

LXVI.
The Vine has struck a fiber: which about
If clings my Being -- let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

LXVII.
And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath -- consume me quite,
One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

LXVIII.
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

LXIX.
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent us dross-allay'd --
Sue for a Debt we never did contract,
And cannot answer -- Oh the sorry trade!

LXX.
Nay, but for terror of his wrathful Face,
I swear I will not call Injustice Grace;
Not one Good Fellow of the Tavern but
Would kick so poor a Coward from the place.

LXXI.
Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou will not with Predestin'd Evil round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

LXXII.
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give -- and take!

LXXIII.
Listen again. One Evening at the Close
Of Ramazan, ere the better Moon arose,
In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
With the clay Population round in Rows.

LXXIV.
And, strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more impatient cried --
"Who is the Potter, pray, and who the ***?"

LXXV.
Then said another -- "Surely not in vain
My Substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
Should stamp me back to common Earth again."

LXXVI.
Another said -- "Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
Shall He that made the vessel in pure Love
And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy?"

LXXVII.
None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

LXXVIII:
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marred in making -- Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."

LXXIX.
Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
"My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-by!"

LXXX.
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The Little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

LXXXI.
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

LXXXII.
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True Believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.

LXXXIII.
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:
Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.

LXXXIV.
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore -- but was I sober when I swore?
And then, and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

LXXXV.
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor -- well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.

LXXXVI.
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

LXXXVII.
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse -- If dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd
To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

LXXXVIII.
Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits -- and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

LXXXIX.
Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me -- in vain!

XC.
And when like her, oh Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made one -- turn down an empty Glass!

We overestimate the probability of the improbable through eyes and ears that are susceptible to vivid imagery. Social media screams that 100 people died from poisoned cantaloupes instead of saying in less emotional terms 100 in 7,000,000,000 or .000000000001% of the population. Really It’s all about fear and manipulation. You viewed all the news interviews, watched YouTube videos and even read the compelling articles. Now you’re in the grocery store avoiding cantaloupes like the plague because you might be next! Conversely in positive outcomes this is the same rationalization that compels people to buy jack *** lottery tickets. Can you see how we extremely over weighting the probabilities of events based on the vividness and prevalence of the coverage? The news—the government---companies---all individuals have agendas but not everyone is looking out for your best interest. Many are “wolves in sheep’s clothing” that feed on these manipulations in regards to rare events with the sole purpose to covertly produce a particular behavior that prospers outcomes that are favorable to their own position.

Now her goes the paradox of overestimation and underestimation in regards to rare events. A strange thing happens when rare events are not being perceived vividly through our senses. They are simply ignored! We no longer over estimate probabilities but instead begin to under estimate probability! For example during Hurricane Katrina victims yielded to evacuate due to this under estimation. The probability of the rare event was neglected in part to lack of vividness. In hindsight they seemed foolish for not leaving but in actuality were quite human in their behavior that lacked the emotional experience towards the rare event (obviously the decision was intertwined with a myriad of other individual variables). In the aftermath the vividness of the Hurricane’s media coverage allows the opposite to occur once more---a heavy overestimation of a future storms probability. This produces disproportionate fears for many in regards to actual hurricane probabilities. Leaving the door open for exploitation.

What we see is a human nature that goes extremely over or under in estimations towards the outcomes of rare events compared to the events actual probabilities. The danger is that people know this!! They can pump your head with what they want you to overestimate and be silent on what they’d like you to neglect, all in the manipulation of their cause. The perceived good guy can easily be one in the same with the bad guy. The best sociopaths are quite charming. People can easily be manipulated with the news and Youtube videos for example. Often times the information provided has traces of truth that are used to spark emotions that lead an individual further away from actuality while simultaneously using them towards their own divisive agendas. They will stay silent to other matters---producing neglect till it’s time to play the good guy once the neglected issue (often created themselves) explodes. In the after math the information they provide makes you feel empowered but it's only manipulating you further into their own aspirations--they look like a hero for doing it --again they produce the overestimations of fear where they want while staying silent to what they wish for you to neglect. Whether it’s the government, a conspiracy theorist or a manipulating relationship partner be attuned to how we process information and the susceptibility to manipulation (overestiamation-underestimation). Although not every situation is a source of manipulation from others it would be unwise to neglect the fact that our own emotions can lead us to these same ignorances all by our selves. I give glory and honor to my Savior Jesus Christ for this knowledge in which Faith in Him alone helps me discern and weight the emotional information and there intentions

A funeral for a Great King
Mourning
Ageing
Descendants carve their paths
Glory
Heorot
A Demonic mood-killer
Lonely
Grendel
A hero answers the call
Distant
Majestic
A vow of aid
Impressive
Doubtful
Claims become realized
Death
Celebration
Danger revisits
Vengeance
Maternal
A journey to the marsh
Darkness
Fiends
An underwater duel
Headless
Reward
The hero departs
Sadness
Homecoming
A joyous return
Stories
Changes
A death in the family
Sadness
Inheritance
50 years prospers the Hero-King
Greatness
Theft
A beast is awoken
Ancient
Furious
The people suffer
Dust
Ashes
An old king rebels
Victory
Grief
A funeral for a Great King

Old Deuteronomy’s lived a long time;
He’s a Cat who has lived many lives in succession.
He was famous in proverb and famous in rhyme
A long while before Queen Victoria’s accession.
Old Deuteronomy’s buried nine wives
And more—I am tempted to say, ninety-nine;
And his numerous progeny prospers and thrives
And the village is proud of him in his decline.
At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy,
When he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall,
The Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My mind may be wandering, but I confess
I believe it is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy sits in the street,
He sits in the High Street on market day;
The bullocks may bellow, the sheep they may bleat,
But the dogs and the herdsmen will turn them away.
The cars and the lorries run over the kerb,
And the villagers put up a notice: ROAD CLOSED—
So that nothing untoward may chance to distrub
Deuteronomy’s rest when he feels so disposed
Or when he’s engaged in domestic economy:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My sight’s unreliable, but I can guess
That the cause of the trouble is Old Deuteronomy!”

Old Deuteronomy lies on the floor
Of the Fox and French Horn for his afternoon sleep;
And when the men say: “There’s just time for one more,”
Then the landlady from her back parlour will peep
And say: “New then, out you go, by the back door,
For Old Deuteronomy mustn’t be woken—

I’ll have the police if there’s any uproar”—
And out they all shuffle, without a word spoken.
The digestive repose of that feline’s gastronomy
Must never be broken, whatever befall:
And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: “Well, of all …
Things… Can it be … really! … No!… Yes!…
**! hi!
Oh, my eye!
My legs may be tottery, I must go slow
And be careful of Old Deuteronomy!”

Of the awefull battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles:
together with some account of the participation of the
     Pugs and the Poms, and the intervention of the Great
     Rumpuscat

The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows,
Are proud and implacable passionate foes;
It is always the same, wherever one goes.
And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say
That they do not like fighting, yet once in a way,
They will now and again join in to the fray
And they
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now on the occasion of which I shall speak
Almost nothing had happened for nearly a week
(And that’s a long time for a Pol or a Peke).
The big Police Dog was away from his beat—
I don’t know the reason, but most people think
He’d slipped into the Wellington Arms for a drink—
And no one at all was about on the street
When a Peke and a Pollicle happened to meet.
They did not advance, or exactly retreat,
But they glared at each other, and scraped their hind
     feet,
And they started to
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now the Peke, although people may say what they please,
Is no British Dog, but a Heathen Chinese.
And so all the Pekes, when they heard the uproar,
Some came to the window, some came to the door;
There were surely a dozen, more likely a score.
And together they started to grumble and wheeze
In their huffery-snuffery Heathen Chinese.
But a terrible din is what Pollicles like,
For your Pollicle Dog is a dour Yorkshire tyke,
And his braw Scottish cousins are snappers and biters,
And every dog-jack of them notable fighters;
And so they stepped out, with their pipers in order,
Playing When the Blue Bonnets Came Over the Border.
Then the Pugs and the Poms held no longer aloof,
But some from the balcony, some from the roof,
Joined in
To the din
With a
Bark bark bark bark
Bark bark BARK BARK
Until you can hear them all over the Park.

Now when these bold heroes together assembled,
That traffic all stopped, and the Underground trembled,
And some of the neighbours were so much afraid
That they started to ring up the Fire Brigade.
When suddenly, up from a small basement flat,
Why who should stalk out but the GREAT RUMPUSCAT.
His eyes were like fireballs fearfully blazing,
He gave a great yawn, and his jaws were amazing;
And when he looked out through the bars of the area,
You never saw anything fiercer or hairier.
And what with the glare of his eyes and his yawning,
The Pekes and the Pollicles quickly took warning.
He looked at the sky and he gave a great leap—
And they every last one of them scattered like sheep.

And when the Police Dog returned to his beat,
There wasn’t a single one left in the street.

There was a young lady, whose nose,
Continually prospers and grows;
When it grew out of sight,
She exclaimed in a fright,
'Oh! Farewell to the end of my nose!'

Goddess above me!
Snake of the slime
Alostrael, love me!
Our master, the devil
Prospers the revel.
Tread with your foot
My heart til it hurt!
Tread on it, put
The smear of your dirt
On my love, on my shame
Scribble your name!
Straddle your Beast
My Masterful *****
With the thighs of you greased
With the Sweat of your Itch!
Spit on me, scarlet
Mouth of my harlot!
Now from your wide
Raw ****, the abyss,
Spend spouting the tide
Of your sizzling ****
In my mouth; oh my *****
Let it pour, let it pour!

You stale like a mare
And **** as you stale;
Through straggled wet hair
You spout like a whale.
Splash the manure
And **** from the sewer.
Down to me quick
With your tooth on my lip
And your hand on my *****
With feverish grip
My life as it drinks—
How your breath stinks!

Your hand, oh unclean
Your hand that has wasted
Your love, in obscene
Black masses, that tasted
Your soul, it’s your hand!
Feel my ***** stand!

Your life times from lewd
Little girl, to mature
Worn ***** that has chewed
Your own pile of manure.
Your hand was the key to—
And now your frig me, too!

Rub all the much
Of your **** on me, Leah
****, let me ****
All your glued gonorrhea!
**** without end!
Amen! til you spend!

****! you have harboured
All dirt and disease
In your slimy unbarbered
Loose hole, with its cheese
And its monthlies, and pox
You chewer of *****!
****, you have ******
Up ******, you squirted
Out foetuses, ******
Til ******* you blurted
Out into space—
Spend on my face!

Rub all your gleet away!
Envenom the arrow.
May your pox eat away
Me to the marrow.
**** you have got me;
I love you to rot me!

Spend again, lash me!
Leah, one spasm
Scream to splash me.
Slime of the chasm
Choke me with spilth
Of your sow-belly’s filth.

Stab your demonic
Smile to my brain!
Soak me in cognac
**** and *******;
Sprawl on me! Sit
On my mouth, Leah, ****!

**** on me, ****!
Creamy the curds
That drip from your gut!
Greasy the turds!
Dribble your dung
On the tip of my tongue!

Churn on me, Leah!
Twist on your thighs!
Smear diarrhoea
Into my eyes!
Splutter out ****
From the bottomless pit.

Turn to me, chew it
With me, Leah, *****!
***** it, spew it
And lick it once more.
We can make lust
Drunk on Disgust.

Splay out your gut,
Your *******, my lover!
You buggering ****,
I know where to shove her!
There she goes, plumb
Up the foul *****’s ***!

Sackful of skin
And bone, as I speak
I’ll ****** your grin
Into a shriek.
****** you, ****
****** your gut!

Wriggle, you hog!
Wrench at the pin!
Wrench at it, drag
It half out, **** it in!
Scream, you hog dirt, you!
I want it to hurt you!

Beast-Lioness, squirt
From your *******’s hole!
Belch out the dirt
From your Syphillis soul.
Splutter foul words
Through your supper of turds!

May the Devil our lord, your
Soul scribble over
With sayings of ordure!
Call me your lover!
Slave of the gut
Of the **** of a ****!

Call me your sewer
Of spilth and snot
Your ****-sniffer, chewer
Of the **** in your slot.
Call me that as you rave
In the **** of your slave.

****! ****! Let me come
Alostrael—****!
I’ve spent in your ***.
****! Give me the muck
From my *****’s ****, slick
Dirt of my *****!

Eat it, you sow!
I’m your dog, ****, ****!
Swallow it now!
Rest for a bit!
Satan, you gave
A crown to a slave.

I am your fate, on
Your belly, above you.
I swear it by Satan
Leah, I love you.
I’m going insane
Do it again!

I'm in a hypnogogic state of mind
Floating through the sands of time
Keep me in this reverie
My hearts feeling fiery
You've got me in this fervent trance
Finding my rhythm a new way to dance

This writing was found in Italian among
my father's papers, when he passed away
___________
*Dedicated to F. Murray Abraham, whose
performance as Shylock, rent open my chest.
and with deep apologies to Shakespeare*
and gifted to Liz Balise
__________

The True Tale of Shylock's Pound
(Did Shylock pay his pound of flesh?)

A peculiar circumcision,
into the Jew's chest
shall now be commenced,
by the Medico Legale of Venizia,,
his instruments blessed, ready.

Dual purposed, to extract  
an accursed payment,
in service to the Court and
in furtherance to man's
greater scientific knowledge.

Incise a body prone before him,
but it's not a body at rest,
the cut, the trademark coroner's
inquiring and most appropriate Y,
(his pleas to Yehovah go unanswered)
shall be executed just so,
both as legal tender,
his debt to pay,
and to answer queries varied,
shall we,
this living body, dismember
while coincidental, alive.

Tho we injure with pleasure,
t'is recorded fair,
t'is at the behest of a
court-ordered scientific inquiry,
ordered to measure,
answer questions
from the trial's record
that having been posed
to the Duke,  
and for answers,
impatiently,
the Court and Duke,
now awaits:

By the unholy virtue of his
guile and trickery,
a trifling pound
shall be ours,
for the Jew's resource,
and fortune
have been most
legally reversed.

His due, most legitimate,
more than forfeit,
is now ours to keep.

Hath a Jew hands,
organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions?

If you ***** the Jew,
doth it bleed?

How much doth a Jew's
pound of flesh weigh?

Doth it weigh more or less
when his unholy soul
yet contaminate
his writhing body?

What color doth his heart,
exposed, reveal
or simpler yet,
does the accursed,
this dog's vessel,
even a heart contain?

What powers the Jew's cunning,
inspires his deceptions,
so he prospers despite  our
many constant degradations?

Come wise councillors of
most notable lineage,
let's us put our heads together,
like the olden Egyptian sorcerers
who tried yet failed.

Have at it skilled Da Vinci, you
and your scienziato brethren,
do assay well the potions
that doth taint the Jew's blood,
so that we may,
his secrets maketh,
our own notions.

Come Medicos,
discover how the Jew
maketh precious stones
from coals, spit and hate,
for the bene proviso of the
citizens of our city-state,
dearest Venice!

Our brothers who from
Spain and Portugal hail,
have much knowledge
in these matters,
so let make haste,
cut deep and true, Doctors
the Jew physic treasures discover,
lest the Spanish Alchemistos
the secrets earn,
their inquisitories reveal
how Jews turn
dross into ducats!

Take measurements fine,
observe most accurate
his corde vocali,
the infernal instrument
projecting these shrieks, cries,
so horrible peculiar,
we need to ascertain
the wherefore of such
wails and moans.

All knoweth,
Jew cries are lies,
yet they haunt and crucify
our most perfect, noble demeanor,
**** them.

Attention pay, dear ones,
examine with great care,
the tongue that populates
his now most deformed features.

Its secrets many,
for it speaks guile
so fluently and elegante,
and in so many lingua,
a skill, our brothers Borgia
hold exceedingly valuable!

Our introspection today
in Heaven's service performed,
this pound,
its value exceedth
its countermeasure in
gold and jewels

When has Justice
and science
simultaneous,
been served so well?

Only one quest remains
unknown and alas,  
as yet unresolvable:

**What maketh a Jew,
this Jew, all Jews,
choose death
over our warm and willing embrace?

When on the sandy shore I sit,
Beside the salt sea-wave,
And fall into a weeping fit
Because I dare not shave -
A little whisper at my ear
Enquires the reason of my fear.

I answer "If that ruffian Jones
Should recognise me here,
He'd bellow out my name in tones
Offensive to the ear:
He chaffs me so on being stout
(A thing that always puts me out)."

Ah me! I see him on the cliff!
Farewell, farewell to hope,
If he should look this way, and if
He's got his telescope!
To whatsoever place I flee,
My odious rival follows me!

For every night, and everywhere,
I meet him out at dinner;
And when I've found some charming fair,
And vowed to die or win her,
The wretch (he's thin and I am stout)
Is sure to come and cut me out!

The girls (just like them!) all agree
To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what on earth they see
About him to admire?
They cry "He is so sleek and slim,
It's quite a treat to look at him!"

They vanish in tobacco smoke,
Those visionary maids -
I feel a sharp and sudden poke
Between the shoulder-blades -
"Why, Brown, my boy! Your growing stout!"
(I told you he would find me out!)

"My growth is not YOUR business, Sir!"
"No more it is, my boy!
But if it's YOURS, as I infer,
Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man, whose business prospers so,
Is just the sort of man to know!

"It's hardly safe, though, talking here -
I'd best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
Must shortly sink the beach!" -
Insult me thus because I'm stout!
I vow I'll go and call him out!

LINES WRITTEN WITH TEARS
Gp Capt Matloob Bokhari



In the midst of corpses without arms,
In the midst of corpses without heads,
In the midst of corpses, drenched in blood,
In the midst of corpses, without coffins,
In the midst of corpses, stood the pride of Islam.
On a corpse pierced with arrows, Zainab  screamed:
“I cannot identify, are  you  my brother Hussain?”
My friends, Have you read a tragedy  darker than this?
A sister unable to recognize her brother, so ruthlessly slain!


COMMENTS  :  LINES WRITTEN WITH TEARS

Farzana Altaf: Very touching indeed, a poet who can feel, taste, weep, laugh his poetry in his reader's heart and soul has accomplished much...
Kristine Nicholson: This is a poignant expression of sorrow, Matloob. War is always ugly. Sincerely,  Truth survives, although human life is ephemeral. Ken
Arkay Evans:This is truly beautiful; it reads as a river of tears begins - flowing and healing to the sea...I pray you are well, lifted and comforted on your journey. Blessings
Xpuaa : Indeed lines written with tears. Moving! and congrats this poem needs courage and sincerity to be written!!!!
Iulia Gherghei :very touching!!!!..that is the measure of humanity!!!
Kristen Scott: Zainab suffered and bore it with strength and dignity . it's amazing and heartfelt Matloob ~  K.
Sandra Delussu:  Matloob. you go on touching my heart..
Michael Edward Clearman: May the message of this poem water the earth with its truth.
Sandra Delussu: a knife in the heart! and it is but a drop in the ocean of suffering what we try to feel...  dear Matloob the figure of such a great woman comes shining in the souls of those who didn't know her! go on telling us! Enmity starts in frustration. frustration starts in ignorance! taking along pretending serving God's will!!!!...such blindness only can speak to blindness...but we're not blind!
Shareef Abdur-Rasheed: REEEEEAAALLLL!!!!This is no joke,WORLD!! This bloodshed, carnage got to stop!!How can the world turn their back and shut their eyes?? akhi This piece and others addressed to this critical issue are vital to raising awareness in a preoccupied world who are "Numb, deaf, dumb, blind to genocide until it knocks on their door! Jazak Allah Khair for raising consciousness!!
Alma Delacruz Gossman: We are not blind! We just simply refuse to really see! Excellent  your compassion and dignity are unshakable...and I so admire your conviction and belief in the greater good...we mustn't ever give up...and the messages of those who truly see, like you, must continue and we ALL need to hold that torch up high, as many remain in the dark by choice, often swayed in the wrong direction by those led by their ego, rather than their hearts and souls. Thank you for shedding your loving light and make so many aware that just refuse to see or who are shut off from the truth! Bravo! Thank you for writing the harsh reality, that many a man had truly blown it for far too many!  You create an awareness that truly needs to resonate in each of us! If only more would take their blinders off and really see!
Sophia Brownie :I CANT EVEN BEGIN TO IMAGINE SEEING THIS.
Shahzia Batool : though i always think that the best comment on any poem is "SPEECHLESS" ,but as i am the student and  teacher of poetry  so i always try to use words of appreciation and the just words...i read the poem twice and read the comments as well . it's a very consoling  and comforting thing that you have a strong voice ,and people listen to your voice...symbols  and allegory are your tools and you know how to weave images. You are loyal to the promise of existence...matloob sb  it is divinely ordained to expose the evil forces...by any substantial effort ! May you be blessed and heard !
Isabelle Black Smith:  Cannot even begin to imagine the depth of sorrow, loss and helplessness. You make us stop and think.
Maurin Alessandro :Good words my dear friend. So sad, but is a true history .. I am from Brazil and has a  musical group.  Can I sing this  awesome poem?
Gail Wolper :terribly sorrowful. I am sad.
Gary Leikas:  sounds like you were with Krishna and Arjuna at Kurukshetra .
Carole Semeniuk : NO.. I cannot imagine not being able to recognize my brother in life, or death............. very searing poem to the heart my friend . Your words cut through the heart... and make one appreciate the pain and agony of this moment................................... well done . Such a tender compassionate Soul you are!
Karyn Walker: Beautiful lines, Matloob  'Why good suffers and evil prospers?' It does for a reason Matloob. But you and I both have seen them fall. Sad part is that sometimes it takes so long. Evil provokes Evil that's a paradox in itself. That's why we pray so much because that is what it ends up taking: Prayer.
Jennifer Long: oh my..... So powerful the imagery and the punch of the rhythm, and the words. this is a great piece of writing!
Satyender ParkashAas:  Progressive, fine personification of darkness, cloud.  Matchless!
Lone-elisabeth Berg Jakobsen: I read it twice, and I love it so much I had tears in my eyes, I am very sensitive and it is very strong and beautiful.
Jeannette Mendoza Dalling : no words to describe the sadness this cause's me , that so many live like this .
Leo Riccio :sad. beyond words



Blessed-Heart - Hi my friend, may your day be filled with joy, peace, and much harmony. And your heart filled with love and kindness. Enjoy your rest of your day. Moved to read these moving lines!!!! Nancy

When the thieves broke in,
They broke my mother’s heart,
They broke my naiveté,
They broke my maternal lineage,

By making her closet bare,
She stood barely recognizing it,
Stared at her safe,
Her
Bulletproof
Fireproof    
Apocalypse proof
Safe
Code c r a c k e d,
Deadbolt door eerily open.

“It’s just jewelry,” she muttered,
        [Passed down from one generation to the next,
        Dating back to an invaded India,
        Surviving six hundred soldiers,
        Smuggled within folds of saris through seas,
        Stories etched in souvenir gold].

“At least we’re all safe,” she stated with conviction.
        [Yet I couldn’t help but feel,
        A physical furthering,
        From my immigrant ancestors,
        Who passed along secrets with every pendant,
        Who whispered hopes in every ornate hairpin,
        Who stored their aspirations in every accumulation:
        Real riches knit with poetic prospers from the past].

How funny
To imagine the thieves
Pricing a priceless object --
Ironically making it worthless
Because the burglary left behind
The heritage.

The Afghan army insisted things
Were more secure in 2013

But they had to close down the schools
One man said the Taliban threatened to attack the schools

Now the men fight with Soviet era weapons
The American troop levels reduced

In one village
The people can farm and work freely
Because of patrols by the Afghan police and
The police took over the patrols after the Americans left
The police report what is going on to the military

The people want clinics and schools
To be built

The army leaves day to day security
In the hands of the National Police

The Police Chief says
They have gained the trust of the local people
And they discuss how to punish the warlords

May God be with the national army and police force
May they protect the people and keep them safe

Some Afghans
Living in Pakistan
Were forced to return to Afghanistan
After a school was attacked in Peshwar, Pakistan

The Afghans suspect
That local officials are taking advantage
Of the situation
To expel unwanted refugees

More than 33,000 undocumented Afghans returned from Afghanistan
In the first six weeks of 2015

Even some registered refugees
Have been driven out of Pakistan

Many returning Afghan families have nowhere to go
In Jalalabad, the closest big city
On the Afghan side of Torkham
Families pitched tents along a canal
Lacking any other resource

Their children pulled turnips from a nearby field
The most reliable source of food

One woman is worried
How her children will fare
They no nothing of the country
And what it is like

Their is great mineral wealth in that country
Perhaps that is the main reason why
The U.S. has plans to stay there
For an extended period

I doubt life for the Afghan will ever get better
Or be more secure
The Taliban are there to stay

33% of people live below the poverty line
I doubt that figure will ever improve either
Even if the country prospers from their mineral deposits
The common man won't benefit

Well, that's just how the cookie crumbles
In Afghanistan

The world is grey now,
I see through broken eyes.
Mislead and misunderstood in the end,
I don't cry.

I see the injustice,
as I walk through the concrete jungle.
Poor man suffers while rich man prospers,
reaps the reward of a rich uncle.

The world is crying,
and I can hear them all.
Their cries for justice and a land without corruptness,
pierce my ears.

Storm clouds clutter my thoughts,
lightning strikes my unlit brain,
now it sits, aflame,
electricity courses through the tunnels.
I feel the charge,
I shake the strife,
I feel the life,
I feel the need,
to save the world.

That old clock is ticking away,
the days bleed on one into another,
mostly all the same, nothing much
new to report here. I do what I can,
what my aged body will allow.
A limited return on my investment
I guess, but still finding little joys
that sustain me, mostly given up
on big dreams and illusions, anyway
being rich and famous was never on
my wish list agenda, all in all it's been
a very good run, with strong family
love given and received, our linage
prospers and continues, that is after
all the only real reason any of us, man
bird or beast were put on this earth.

To believe otherwise is but a
human delusion that in the end
matters not in the least.

When her attire was grand
and she bade a purr if she'd kneel
that she was grave and joined in communion
with anesthesia she grouped a gown
though brilliant in blue here today.
Only whir less until she utter best
that her oath is for him more and more
and like friut prospers inherently in wine.

Knives are slippery things and
No matter what handle they bear,
They are sure to find themselves
In flesh sometimes, by mistake.

When a human hand is wounded,
And blood flows, and a voice cries
Out in pain from the whole body,
It is still the hand that must heal itself.
The valiant cells who die to bridge
The new rift must drift from their
Places near the cut. The brain can -
At first - do nothing but tell itself
How the hand suffers, but

Then comes the second reaction.
Then comes the instinct so buried
That it is not even a thought.
Blood is needed, so the marrow works
In the hands and the arms and
The chest and even as far as
The legs and feet. Infection will try
To sneak in - the brain knows this
The way canyons remember rivers.

So then come the blood cells,
Red and white, to defend their new
Homeland, (or their new home,
Since they are all of one being,
One great and unbroken body.)
Fever may come, or not; a scar
Might form that never fades, but
The hand never forgets that it is made
From the stitched skeletons of saviors.

And despite knives, the body prospers.
One hand bandages another, one foot
Bears the full weight while the other heals,
The body survives: not unchanged, but
So tempered and hardened in the changing
That it has no need for fear of knives.

Inside the blue and velvet skyline,
there are buried ruins of grandmother's dreams,  the cactus fence that seperates heaven and hell,  darker stress, secrets and whispers, but we can still sing about us and the newness of day

For the rise and rhythm the of King's song, is always playing

The king's hand spins dreams off
Off the melodies of his guitar;
And life and colors, begin to heal everything
bloodstream,
over blood stream,
muscle becomes bones, humanity becomes again so free.

But time after time, rings of planets are stolen,
and the oceans of stars become fallen like asteroids,
all islands of gold become dust and people fall like lust,
all things, all wisdom seems lost, but like moonlight,
the king's dreams still set us free despite our sorrow and fright.

So come and sing, for if we sing his song,
time after time, in our hearts we grow like the
giant Brazilian trees, and the river of hope prospers so perfect.


So let's dance under these possibilities,
and all the stars, raise your song and wine,
your heart into my hands, for I know His love shall carry us
for upon our red rooftop, we can rest easier tonight.

For you can see the oceans in the sky
that covers the Brazilian seashore.
Resting and healing the soul of the green earth.
  And so I will hold you.

For like your wedding ring,
let me speak within the quiet broken night,
you can feel the oceans of memories

here

hold my hand, then let my voice unlock creation,
Echoing and speaking the languages
of your dreams and desires, for how I do love you.  

Now see the moonlight's rule over the stars,
speaking pictures of grace into the quiet night.

In such a way the power of the moonlight stands like a king,
in the same way, I will open and unlock the waves of our dreams.

A proverbial panic
As the early worm escapes.

The humming sun
Silvers a bush
       And blinds two birds:

A gambler prospers.

Get rid of them all,
We do not need these vermin with their rituals and ceremonies,
Pish posh their just a waste of money,
We spend our dollars to "conserve" culture,
Why,
When we have pride in our own,
Throw the beasts out,
Let us alone rot in our culture,
While the world prospers and grows relations,
We promote our culture with pride,
Ensuring we establish our culture in the minds of all,
Abolishing the infection that reeks the minds of all who are not U.S.

Goodmorning, Donald, my sick friend.
I've come to help you tweet again
Because your vision's simply creepy,
Has left you vulnerable to tweet with me.
And these visions I have planted in your brain
Are quite insane
Within the bounds of violence.

Of careless schemes you talk by phone.
Narrowed choices cobbled in stone
'Neath my control, you are a champ.
I turn your thinking to the cold and damp
Through your eyes stabs the flash of terror and fright
That blocks all light
Revealing the bounds of violence.

And in this blackened night I saw
Your MAGA People, by the score.
People jeering without speaking.
People fearing without listening.
So you tweet along to voices that they share.
And so they care
To set the bounds of violence.

"Tools," say I, "With Trump you'll know
Violence, likens more and grows.
Read Trumps words that he might teach you.
Feel my charms so I might reach you,"
And Trumps words like giant droplets fell
Which scattered cross the bounds of violence.

And these people cowed and bayed
To the tweets The Don had made.
And the News Reports flashed out warnings
But their words were never quite forming.
And the News said,
The Tweets of the POTUS are written as satanic calls
When darkness falls.
And prospers the bounds of violence."

The eternal trench has been dug,
Each side gazes upon a day's destruction.
A battle where neither side shrugs
A battle built upon corruption.
The fight - for North Vespucci
The land that prospers from war
Each side sets skillful schemes too cheat
And they surely settle the score.

A voice, a rifle
Like bullets - piercing a party's heart
Accountants launder loot - leaving us stifled
Like the master tactician - Commanding an army smart.
Ideas recycled;
Luring unsuspecting souls in reach
Only to promise the unobtainable
Through their leader's speech.

Cowering in fear, neutrals despised,
Don't believe the mystic mirages of which they speak
Leaving us disenfranchised,
We are who they consider "weak."
For "weak" I may be,
But disenfranchised - I will not!
With a sincere soul I speak,
We must move to stop the blood clot.

For Weak I am,
But strong I will become.
Nobody gives a ****,
But my voice will be a victorious one!

**** and cigarette smoke mingles with exhaust and the smell of cooking food
The homeless and the elite businessman walk side by side with tourists and hipster girls, and so few stop and stare, to gawk at the urban sprawl of the city, regally scraping at the cloudless sky, fingers hoping to grasp at god
The trolley bell, the scream of distant sirens, the shuffling of feet scraping the ***** sidewalk, the hydraulic hiss of brakes, the music of construction workers pounding and making and fixing, the blare of traffic horns and laughter and serious conversations of passersby in so many voices and tongues all combine like some cosmic tune, a discordant harmony that speaks to the very nature of city life
I feel the wind blowing through my hair as it carries pigeons and trash and the branches of the trees wave their greeting to the people, a friendly universe choked by stone and asphalt and metal shapes, but life will not be constrained, and so the city prospers and we go on and on, not as cogs in some machine, but cells in a body, growing, changing and shaping the whole

In her eyes displayed a woman once happy, once. Her smile use to be the comfort we all yearn for when we're young. A voice of happiness collapsed by the cold hard world we all were brought in to live. But I ponder, what happened to this woman? Is this a world we were all meant to live in? Equality, a word used but never meant. Equality made this woman lose her mind. She didn't misplace it, overtime she took a gamble on life and can you guess what the end result was? Life took her hard work and effort just to throw it back at her. She's been swinging a sword against an impenetrable shield for years. Are you not entertained? Neither is she, fed up with life's punch line her life is the joke. No where to run and all the floors are wet. She's the janitor of her own life but can't ever clean up. The one thing to power such a woman is her selflessness toward everyone in the future. She's already submitted to life in so many aspects are continue for everyone who counts on her. Spending life in poverty, through hard work she prospers but to just barely get by? Understand this life was for all to enjoy but how come we fight for a tablespoon of what we all want to do, live a little.

The clock ticks and ticks
The seconds, minutes, hours pass
The clock looks down from it's perch on the wall
The heart questions its validity
And sighs.

The body grows and prospers
The thought of degenerating, down-grading persists
The body takes itself in and wants to embrace the only moments it has
The brain becomes distracted and lost in its own perception
And sighs.

The Earth, the only planet where love is known to exist
The clock has no jurisdiction over it
The Earth, in all its cosmic glory and all-knowingness
The body, such a sin to let it rot from the inside out,
Sighs.

The clock, the body, the brain, the heart, the Earth
The ticking, the rotting, the thinking, the sighing, the all-knowing
The clock measures the body, and the body, the Earth
The Earth, with no heart or brain of its own, spins unworried
Yet sighs.

The two,
Divested.

                                The two divested,
                          the darkness melting away every imperfection.

every imperfection:
every stray hair
small blemish
scars
protruding bones
and fat.
Legs too skinny and hairy
to be enjoyed in the light.

                                  Love-
                       a nocturnal creature that prospers most in the dark
                                        Thriving on your pining .

The nocturnal creature known as love
enveloping the two.

Love,
and through love,
each creature-
the two and love,
all becoming a symbiote
and a parasite.

                       The darkness-
                 a creature of it's own kind.

The darkness
melting the day away
                               melting the imperfections away
the light
escaping into the moon
shifting every shadow
and enveloping the three.

The two,
         Love,
              the darkness.

The two love the darkness.

Poverty is not mutually exclusive to one place. Want and despair are not specific to one race. Ignorance is not limited to one group. Many of these things we share as people. When one group prospers, another lacks. When one person commits senseless violence, many people are hurt beyond the intended victim. We are blinded by ideology and are limited by our own selfishness. On a world so full of diverse life, we are all of one kind, that is human kind.

Suwreel

The tale of the fat birds
Fire feathered in the dark woods
Asks the myth mountains
Snow drooping and year stained
The long magic of tears crystaled

Sing Cywril to Balour
Make the glad telling
Glow the Tenebrae's darkness
From the fen-mars to Dagash

The truth remains shuttered
The hard fists raise towers
The exhausted land prospers
Heavy with blood thirst

Sing Cywril, Sing, Sing

Gibbens, 68, 12