"Do you remember me? or are you proud?"
Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd,
Ianthe said, and lookt into my eyes,
"A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory
Where you but once have been must ever be,
And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise."
Stand close around, ye Stygian set,
With Dirce in one boat conveyed,
Or Charon, seeing, may forget
That he is old and she a shade.
"I am but clay," the sinner plead,
Who fed each vain desire.
"Not only clay," another said,
"But worse, for thou art mire."
Those unrequited in their love who die
Have never drained life's chief illusion dry.
When a daffodil I see,
Hanging down his head towards me,
Guess I may what I must be:
First, I shall decline my head;
Secondly, I shall be dead;
Lastly, safely buried.
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
O Friend! go not there;
In your body is the garden of flowers.
Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus,
and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.
diwali night ~
a row of lamps wavering
in haze and smog
(Note: Diwali or Deepawali is the Hindu Festival of Lights, when they light their homes with candles and earthen lamps to welcome Sri-Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth and Prosperity. It is a joyous occasion celebrated by children with bursting of crackers and people exchange greetings with sweets.)
Woke up suddenly thinking I heard crying.
Rushed through the dark house.
Stopped, remembering. Stood looking
out at bright moonlight on concrete.
Anonymous submission.
made murky that crystal-clear stream
Choked it with weeds of malice and hate
Kinsmen turned foes, brotherhood was a dream
Followers of Qibla became querulous, mean
Where are those Muslims, even ten can't be found
Who would happily see others prospering around.
Thou water turn'st to wine, fair friend of life,
Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of thy reign,
Distills from thence the tears of wrath and strife,
And so turns wine to water back again.
