moon-like winter days,
Georg Trakl, Poems and Prose: Sevenfold Song of Death; from 'Föhn', tr. Alexander Stillmark
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Christina Rossetti, from Poems and Prose; “Maiden-Song”
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Below they weep
If the gods below the earth could reach out with hands of stone and moss
what would they say about all they've lost?
Could you tame the cries of misty eyes singing lost goodbyes
could you answer that heartbreaking why?
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When you die, people don't cry because they miss you. They cry because they lost whatever you were able to give them, until they realise that someone else can give them that same exact thing.
Unknown
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"....we look up and we hope the stars look down, we pray that there may be stars for us to follow, stars moving across the heavens and leading us to our destiny, but it's only our vanity. We look at the galaxy and fall in love, but the universe cares less about us than we do about it, and the stars stay in their courses however much we may wish upon them to do otherwise. It's true that if you watch the sky-wheel turn for a while you'll see a meteor fall , flame and die. That's not a star worth following; it's just an unlucky rock. Our fates are here on earth. There are no guiding stars."
Salman Rushdie, The Moor's Last Sigh
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Georg Trakl, Poems and Prose: Poems from Der Brenner 1914/5; from 'The Thunderstorm', tr. Alexander Stillmark
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Swimming mid flight
The coolness of hate turning warm under a tender touch. Salty tears watering a dried up husk, soft hands soothing aching eyes.
Heart held devotion and tired bitter lies. Life so fleeting, as swift as a bird.
Moments that ground us to roots of this earth.To be human is run fast and fall, but never to give up and to always laugh at the dizzying gall.
If I had wings I'd learn to swim, for this life is a cliffegde and I won't jump on a whim.
But sometimes I remember that I am but a fish, I lounge within my bowl, and never see the world as a whole.
What must they think of us, the ones outside that globe, watching us take our first breath only to drowned with nothing left.
So when I look out at this world from within my little bowl, I see that life is meaningless but so are songs of old.
I certainly find beauty in those melodies so why shouldn't I find music in the simple things, perhaps I'll turn it into a kind of remedy
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"Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn"
- Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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