A poem I wrote for Shamura, since they said they accept art and literature as offerings.
Through ever darkened woods
Multitude of eyes
Watch from the shadows
Temple to Wisdom stands
At the center of Fate's web
Followers will flock
Like Moth to Flame
In desperate pursuit
Of knowledge hidden
They are caught as flies
In sticky silken words
Wrapped in white cocoons
They sleep devoted
Cradled in silk
I found a road sign near my apartment today.
click for higher image quality
i have heard the way death can call out your name. gentle and kind. she makes promises of the peace forever could bring. the tranquility of an ending so permanent. quick and anything but painless. i have heard the way death can call out your name, and i am still learning she isn't kind. she's hungry. she doesn't care what violence she brings, as long as she's had her fill. and so when she sings of the softness of no more tomorrows, i remind myself of the joy of knowing i still have time. i can still grow and change. it doesn't always have to be like this. tomorrow is a mountain i will make myself climb. if only to see the view from the top. i have heard the way death can call out your name. but i promise i won't listen anymore.
the way back home - parrish h.
on the sheets
hiked up hemline
soul in heat
stroked in time
to the beat
Two halves of a man are laid
upon the block, awaiting
another cleaver’s fall, when
division becomes its own
unity (they were never whole
to begin with, but sharper
minds might make something
sweet from their ambisinistrous
remorse); if only one collapsing
lung could speak up & aloud
for both — either should still
possess breath enough, I’m told
@nosebleedclub September Prompts xxiii. embolden
áva quetë nation sí avánier
qui aurë sina enyales
cala menelo néya valaina,
as yaimi nainala qualmëo tai
á cenë i lúmi as ringë níri
i marir ilwessë
yaiyala nu huiquatina tellumar
almiéo i oiovanwa ná
ilya nairi si cenir i eressë
Arda sinassë, aurë úcalima
ú-so mana sí imya?
i alassë yeva mirma lá paityalme
speak not of fading things now gone
if he this day recalls -
heaven's light once made divine,
with wails lamenting their loss
behold the hours damp with cries
that echo in the firmament
in mourning under fog-lit skies
of bliss that is forever lost
all woe look now to what remains
within this world, dim in day
without it what is the same?
the mirth whose price we did not pay
- aldudénië. maybe..
below link for my other poetries!
Cherubs dancing and floating with their wings.
As beautiful as Spanish moss that grows above,
My hair is smooth and my eyes are diamonds.
simran, full of emptiness
grocery list at 11:30 PM and also i’m broke by a.dp
Listen. Listen. Most of you have likely never tasted genuine soy sauce as it has historically been made. The vast majority of the entire world population has never actually tasted soy sauce. Because soy sauce takes years of fermentation in a giant custom made squeezable barrel and there's only a very few remaining people who make traditional soy sauce. Only one single company atm afaik makes the special barrels anymore that are required to do it. They make them by order.
Like, can you fucking imagine what a loss it would be if just a single person stopped doing this? If that singular company simply no longer makes the barrel. If those sporadic soy makers moved on or lost their business. Can you even begin to imagine? You can't. There is an entire taste that you have never experienced for yourself because it is dying. And one day it will die and you will never taste it and neither will anyone else ever again.
Saffron crocuses are dying because of climate change. Because of the rising temperatures and drier climates in Iran, the crocuses aren't growing as well, and of course by harvesting the saffron stamens, that prevents the crocuses from being able to go to seed. The balance of this incredibly important historic ingredient is being undone out of circumstances beyond the crocus farmers' control. One day there is a very real chance that a staple ingredient in food across the entirety of the Middle East will no longer exist. No more shirini keshmeshi; no more yakhni pulao; no more mandi djaj. An entire taste will be erased from the world, and all these foods, all these proofs of humanity, of the connections we have with our past and our ancestors, it will be severed as simply as if by a cutting knife.
How can I even begin to cope with the depths of that grief? How do you live with the knowledge that these things could very likely die in your lifetime? That you could witness the atrophying of entire swathes of history and culture happen in realtime, because of greed, because of callous uncaring for others?
How can I explain to anyone why every time I cook with saffron it feels as if I am saying goodbye to someone I love, for the ones who will come after me? Where do I begin to describe to the children who come next the food that our ancestors have eaten for countless generations will never exist for them in the way they were intended to be?
How do I understand my grief when it is based in the knowledge that eventually, it would be impossible to understand?
— a prayer, tathève simonyan
[text ID: a prayer / i look up at God and see my ceiling staring back at me. / whimpered prayers leaving through the gates of my lips, ricocheting and landing right onto my eyes. / now everything i see is tainted with the colors of my pending longings. / a desire so raw you could still see the specks of blood gathering at seams. / a prayer … / a man on his knees in front of a woman, hands on her hips, holding the cathedral that was neither built nor can be destroyed / lips kissing the source of life / lips kissing the source of light / lips kissing / a prayer! – a body to crawl into! (to grow into?) / a prayer! – a dead language we refuse to let go of, / a language of the dead that we refuse to let go of / a prayer! – Grandpa’s favorite tie, hanging from the bedroom door, decades after he passed / because my Grandma was the only one of us who knew what a prayer was / a prayer! – Grandma: “sitting with someone until they finish their meal is the purest sign of love” / a prayer! – i’ll sit with you till the very last sip, till the very last grain / a prayer! – a hymn to the Sun written by the coldest of hands / a prayer! – a mouth full of tongues that can never find the right language to weep in / Rage, that is love – rotten! / Rage, that is desire – rotten! / Rage! – like a prayer, unanswered, ricocheting from your ceiling and landing right onto your eyes, never quite reaching where it was meant to.]
to carry your grief on my back would be an honor by parrish h.