Renewal Poems Quotes

Unending Love I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times... In life after life, in age after age, forever. My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs, That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms, In life after life, in age after age, forever. Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age old pain, It's ancient tale of being apart or together. As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge, Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time. You become an image of what is remembered forever. You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount. At the heart of time, love of one for another. We have played along side millions of lovers, Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting, the distressful tears of farewell, Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever. Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you The love of all man's days both past and forever: Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life. The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours - And the songs of every poet past and forever.

I thought my fireplace dead and stirred the ashes. I burned my fingers.

We must not be frightened nor cajoled into accepting evil as deliverance from evil. We must go on struggling to be human, though monsters of abstraction police and threaten us. Reclaim now, now renew the vision of a human world where godliness is possible and man is neither gook nigger honkey wop nor kike but man permitted to be man.

That’s why the Bible is not a book about going to heaven. The action is here. The life is here. The point is here. It’s a library of books about the healing and restoring and reconciling and renewing of this world. Our home.

Poetry deals with the core of human existence: life, death, renewal, change; as well as fairness and unfairness, injustice and sometimes justice. The world in all its variety.

I am a black woman tall as a cypress strong beyond all definition still defying place and time and circumstance assailed impervious indestructible Look on me and be renewed

Just like a rose, our love unfolds itself with time. From its beginning bud, a blooming most sublime. And with each passing year, such sweeter scent it yields. Come laughter or come tears, more petals are revealed.

Are you willing to be sponged out, erased, cancelled, made nothing? Are you willing to be made nothing? dipped into oblivion? If not, you will never really change.

Sometimes, People just aren’t going to get it It’s an ever-elusive concept, to be understood All you can hope for Is that you find someone that tries. Find someone that tries.

God does not die on the day when we cease to believe in a personal deity, but we die on the day when our lives cease to be illumined by the steady radiance, renewed daily, of a wonder, the source of which is beyond all reason.

listening to music renews the heart precisely for this reason: it plumbs the gravity of sorrow until it finds the point of submerged light and lightness. Listening to music stirs the heavy heart; it alters the gravity. Unconsciously it schools us in a different way to hold sorrow. When the music is dark it works through dissonance and harsh notes; like underpainting their beauty is slow to reveal itself but it does ultimately dawn. It frees a space to let in lightness. Unlike anything else in the world, music is neither image nor word and yet it can say and show more than a painting or poem.

But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see, Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye. We are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry — How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God's future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die. Great hail! we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore; Bring us hither your sun and your summers; And renew our world as of yore; You shall teach us your song's new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before: Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, And a singer who sings no more.

Be the monarch of your life and sign the decree to exile suffering and call back from all points of the universe the power of birds and flowers, the vitality of youth. The whole universe will smile when your eyes smile.

Rebecca del Rio offers a poem, “Prescription for the Disillusioned,” as an invitation to renewal and beginnings. Come new to this day. Remove the rigid overcoat of experience, the notion of knowing, the beliefs that cloud your vision. Leave behind the stories of your life. Spit out the sour taste of unmet expectation. Let the stale scent of what-ifs waft back into the swamp of your useless fears. Arrive curious, without the armor of certainty, the plans and planned results of the life you’ve imagined. Live the life that chooses you, new every breath, every blink of your astonished eyes.

Not everyone understands the love that takes place between two soul mates. Once it strikes, you are never the same. Then every song you hear about true love finally makes sense. All the famous love poems resonate in your heart when you read them. You come to recognize those who have also come to recognize the deepest, truest love …and they recognize you too. You cannot experience this level of relationship with someone who has not been into the depths of love and spirit. You cannot fault them. They are on their own path and if you do anything, pity them for not yet knowing what love is all about.

Parting One is strong, a child now grown The other weak, a parent aged - The strong once feeble The weak once mighty - Time, the infinity has marked them...

The Mask We often pair the turmoil in our mind With a calm exterior, Hoping that the mask Will serve as a floodgate To hold back the chaos Of our swirling thoughts

Of Ruin and Renewal We are souls Of ruin and renewal Sorting through the rubble Of our painful past. We are souls Of ruin and renewal Waiting for the dust To settle at last We are souls Of ruin and renewal Searching for eyes that see us And walk through the debris We are souls Of ruin and renewal, We rebuild, we revive, We repurpose our own story.

Easter blessings All life’s sacrifices like autumn leaves awaken our senses and power to love and be whole Our Mother Earth, Our Father Sky embraces our happiness and laughter Praise be to freedom and life’s seasons Praise be to Christ’s freedom song

The moral covenant of reciprocity calls us to honor our responsibilities for all we have been given, for all that we have taken. It’s our turn now, long overdue. Let us hold a giveaway for Mother Earth, spread our blankets out for her and pile them high with gifts of our own making. Imagine the books, the paintings, the poems, the clever machines, the compassionate acts, the transcendent ideas, the perfect tools. The fierce defense of all that has been given. Gifts of mind, hands, heart, voice, and vision all offered up on behalf of the earth. Whatever our gift, we are called to give it and to dance for the renewal of the world. In return for the privilege of breath.

Long Distance II Though my mother was already two years dead Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas, put hot water bottles her side of the bed and still went to renew her transport pass. You couldn’t just drop in. You had to phone. He’d put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime. He couldn’t risk my blight of disbelief though sure that very soon he’d hear her key scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief. He knew she’d just popped out to get the tea. I believe life ends with death, and that is all. You haven’t both gone shopping; just the same, in my new black leather phone book there’s your name and the disconnected number I still call.

To Hope Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes! How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn! For me wilt thou renew the wither’d rose, And clear my painful path of pointed thorn? Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest, Like the young hours that lead the tender year, Enchantress! come, and charm my cares to rest:— Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear! A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain, Must I a sad existence still deplore? Lo!—the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain, 'For me the vernal garland blooms no more.' Come then, 'pale Misery’s love!' be thou my cure, And I will bless thee, who, tho’ slow, art sure.

Villanelle It is the pain, it is the pain endures. Your chemic beauty burned my muscles through. Poise of my hands reminded me of yours. What later purge from this deep toxin cures? What kindness now could the old salve renew? It is the pain, it is the pain endures. The infection slept (custom or changes inures) And when pain's secondary phase was due Poise of my hands reminded me of yours. How safe I felt, whom memory assures, Rich that your grace safely by heart I knew. It is the pain, it is the pain endures. My stare drank deep beauty that still allures. My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you. Poise of my hands reminded me of yours. You are still kind whom the same shape immures. Kind and beyond adieu. We miss our cue. It is the pain, it is the pain endures. Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

despite catastrophes that defy the imagination, daily life goes on, forgetfulness seems to conquer memory, the world keeps mysteriously renewing itself.

Out from behind the darkness viewed, the light again renewed. May strife and worry cease, with warming rays of joy and peace.

And you, ye stars, Who slowly begin to marshal, As of old, the fields of heaven, Your distant, melancholy lines! Have you, too, survived yourselves? Are you, too, what I fear to become? You, too, once lived; You, too, moved joyfully Among august companions, In an older world, peopled by Gods, In a mightier order, The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven. But now, ye kindle Your lonely, cold-shining lights, Unwilling lingerers In the heavenly wilderness, For a younger, ignoble world; And renew, by necessity, Night after night your courses, In echoing, unneared silence, Above a race you know not— Uncaring and undelighted, Without friend and without home; Weary like us, though not Weary with our weariness.

Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse. You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return. Speak to it as you would to a beloved child. Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.

Sing these songs, and they will renew you from head to toe, from heart to mind. Pray these poems, and they will sustain you on the long, hard but exhilarating road of Christian discipleship.

Stretching my arms out wide, I absorb the sun’s radiant energy and my soul soars very high. I am flying freely like a bird, fluttering my feathered wings, which beat with renewed hope. [Flying Free]

I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, eyes – I wonder if It weighs like Mine – Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long – Or did it just begin – I could not tell the Date of Mine – It feels so old a pain – I wonder if it hurts to live – And if They have to try – And whether – could They choose between – It would not be – to die – I note that Some – gone patient long – At length, renew their smile – An imitation of a Light That has so little Oil – I wonder if when Years have piled – Some Thousands – on the Harm – That hurt them early – such a lapse Could give them any Balm.

Jesus didn’t talk about a God who wants to burn this place down and take us somewhere else; he talked about the renewing of this place, the only home we’ve ever had. Central to the story of the Bible is the affirmation of trees and seas and rocks and air and soil and blood and sweat and skin and all the materiality and diversity and creativity that we know to be central to our life in this world. Jesus talked about a coming time when God would restore and renew and reconcile and redeem and make things right, and he invites us to anticipate that day by doing our part to bring heaven to earth, here, now, today.

Momentum of triumph, concept that is attenuated in the gloom of my illegitimate twilight. I extend my drowsiness, with a daily current renewed by the euphoria. Day after day, day after day. It will be better.

Spilled Ink It seemed unfair And unfinished, And now it would always be tragic. Because you kept Loving them Even when the story ended. And there was nowhere To spill the ink Of the heartbreak their absence wrote.

You sometimes hear people say, with a certain pride in their clerical resistance to the myth, that the nineteenth century really ended not in 1900 but in 1914. But there are different ways of measuring an epoch. 1914 has obvious qualifications; but if you wanted to defend the neater, more mythical date, you could do very well. In 1900 Nietzsche died; Freud published The Interpretation of Dreams; 1900 was the date of Husserl Logic, and of Russell's Critical Exposition of the Philosophy of Leibniz. With an exquisite sense of timing Planck published his quantum hypothesis in the very last days of the century, December 1900. Thus, within a few months, were published works which transformed or transvalued spirituality, the relation of language to knowing, and the very locus of human uncertainty, henceforth to be thought of not as an imperfection of the human apparatus but part of the nature of things, a condition of what we may know. 1900, like 1400 and 1600 and 1000, has the look of a year that ends a saeculum. The mood of fin de siècle is confronted by a harsh historical finis saeculi. There is something satisfying about it, some confirmation of the rightness of the patterns we impose. But as Focillon observed, the anxiety reflected by the fin de siècle is perpetual, and people don't wait for centuries to end before they express it. Any date can be justified on some calculation or other. And of course we have it now, the sense of an ending. It has not diminished, and is as endemic to what we call modernism as apocalyptic utopianism is to political revolution. When we live in the mood of end-dominated crisis, certain now-familiar patterns of assumption become evident. Yeats will help me to illustrate them. For Yeats, an age would end in 1927; the year passed without apocalypse, as end-years do; but this is hardly material. 'When I was writing A Vision,' he said, 'I had constantly the word "terror" impressed upon me, and once the old Stoic prophecy of earthquake, fire and flood at the end of an age, but this I did not take literally.' Yeats is certainly an apocalyptic poet, but he does not take it literally, and this, I think, is characteristic of the attitude not only of modern poets but of the modern literary public to the apocalyptic elements. All the same, like us, he believed them in some fashion, and associated apocalypse with war. At the turning point of time he filled his poems with images of decadence, and praised war because he saw in it, ignorantly we may think, the means of renewal. 'The danger is that there will be no war.... Love war because of its horror, that belief may be changed, civilization renewed.' He saw his time as a time of transition, the last moment before a new annunciation, a new gyre. There was horror to come: 'thunder of feet, tumult of images.' But out of a desolate reality would come renewal. In short, we can find in Yeats all the elements of the apocalyptic paradigm that concern us.

You are a poem- and that is to be the best part of a poet- what makes up the poet's consciousness in his best moods," said Will, showing such originality as we all share with the morning and the spring-time and other endless renewals.

But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed. The certainty that I shall see that lady Leaning or standing or walking In the first loveliness of womanhood, And with the fervour of my youthful eyes, Has set me muttering like a fool. (Broken Dreams)

Later, after we’d brought her home, after we’d settled into all the new rhythms of a family of four, Meg and I were skin to skin and she said: I’ve never been more in love with you than in that moment. Really? Really. She jotted some thoughts in a kind of journal. Which she shared. I read them as a love poem. I read them as a testament, a renewal of our vows. I read them as a citation, a remembrance, a proclamation. I read them as a decree. She said: That was everything. She said: That is a man. My love. She said: That is not a Spare.

David Whyte offers a beautiful poem on the ways we are invited to welcome back the outcast parts of our being. This stanza from “Coleman’s Bed” is filled with self-compassion. Be taught now, among the trees and rocks, how the discarded is woven into shelter, learn the way things hidden and unspoken slowly proclaim their voice in the world. Find that inward symmetry to all outward appearances, apprentice yourself to yourself, begin to welcome back all you sent away, be a new annunciation, make yourself a door through which to be hospitable, even to the stranger in you.

Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom Shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals Disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots And turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky Haggard and hopeless. They, who have beaten down The stale despair of night, must now renew Their desolation in the truce of dawn, Murdering the livid hours that grope for peace. Yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, Can grin through storms of death and find a gap In the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence. They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy Of grass-green thickets, to the land where all Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky That hastens over them where they endure Sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, And foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom. O my brave brown companions, when your souls Flock silently away, and the eyeless dead, Shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, Death will stand grieving in that field of war Since your unvanquished hardihood is spent. And through some mooned Valhalla there will pass Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; The unreturning army that was youth; The legions who have suffered and are dust.

All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.

And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudged to death and hell By doom severe, had not the Son of God, In whom the fullness dwells of love divine, His dearest mediation thus renewed. 'Father, Thy word is passed, man shall find grace; And shall grace not find means, that finds her way, The speediest of Thy winged messengers, To visit all Thy creatures, and to all Comes unprevented, unimplored, unsought, Happy for man, so coming; he her aid Can never seek, once dead in sins and lost; Atonement for himself or offering meet, Indebted and undone, hath none to bring: Behold Me then, Me for him, life for life I offer, on Me let Thine anger fall; Account Me man; I for his sake will leave Thy bosom, and this glory next to Thee Freely put off, and for him lastly die Well pleased, on Me let death wreak all his rage; Under his gloomy power I shall not long Lie vanquished; Thou hast given Me to possess Life in Myself forever, by Thee I live, Though now to death I yield, and am his due All that of Me can die, yet that debt paid, Thou wilt not leave Me in the loathsome grave His prey, nor suffer My unspotted soul Forever with corruption there to dwell; But I shall rise victorious, and subdue My vanquisher, spoiled of his vaunted spoil; Death his death's wound shall then receive, and stoop Inglorious, of his mortal sting disarmed.

But now day breaks! I waited and saw it come, And what I saw, the hallowed, my word shall convey, For she, she herself, who is older than the ages And higher than the gods of Orient and Occident, Nature has now awoken amid the clang of arms, And from high Aether down to the low abyss, According to fixed law, begotten, as in the past, on holy Chaos, Delight, the all-creative, Delights in self-renewal.

That Hölderlin’s poem should pass from Asia to Patmos and thence to the Christian mystery may seem like a superficial association of ideas, but actually it is a highly significant train of thought: it is the entry into death and the land beyond, seen as the self-sacrifice of the hero for the attainment of immortality. At this time, when the sun has set and life seems extinguished, man awaits in secret expectancy the renewal of all life:

The service beautifully reflected Chad’s life, with memories and poems recalling his vitality and thoughtfulness. He was a kind, quiet man without airs or pretensions, and his service honored those beautiful qualities. It happened that I was with Chad’s parents when they saw him laid out for the first time. His father grabbed him by the shoulder and said, “You go rest high on the mountain, son. Rest high on the mountain.” I’m still moved to tears by that memory. His dad said it with conviction and pain, affirming both faith, and ultimately, life.

If I Were Another If I were another on the road, I would not have looked back, I would have said what one traveler said to another: Stranger! awaken the guitar more! Delay our tomorrow so our road may extend and space may widen for us, and we may get rescued from our story together: you are so much yourself ... and I am so much other than myself right here before you! If I were another I would have belonged to the road, neither you nor I would return. Awaken the guitar and we might sense the unknown and the route that tempts the traveler to test gravity. I am only my steps, and you are both my compass and my chasm. If I were another on the road, I would have hidden my emotions in the suitcase, so my poem would be of water, diaphanous, white, abstract, and lightweight ... stronger than memory, and weaker than dewdrops, and I would have said: My identity is this expanse! If I were another on the road, I would have said to the guitar: Teach me an extra string! Because the house is farther, and the road to it prettier— that's what my new song would say. Whenever the road lengthens the meaning renews, and I become two on this road: I ... and another!

The Dying Man" in memoriam W.B. Yeats 1. His words I heard a dying man Say to his gathered kin, “My soul’s hung out to dry, Like a fresh salted skin; I doubt I’ll use it again. “What’s done is yet to come; The flesh deserts the bone, But a kiss widens the rose I know, as the dying know Eternity is Now. “A man sees, as he dies, Death’s possibilities; My heart sways with the world. I am that final thing, A man learning to sing. 2. What Now? Caught in the dying light, I thought myself reborn. My hand turn into hooves. I wear the leaden weight Of what I did not do. Places great with their dead, The mire, the sodden wood, Remind me to stay alive. I am the clumsy man The instant ages on. I burned the flesh away, In love, in lively May. I turn my look upon Another shape than hers Now, as the casement blurs. In the worst night of my will, I dared to question all, And would the same again. What’s beating at the gate? Who’s come can wait. 3. The Wall A ghost comes out of the unconscious mind To grope my sill: It moans to be reborn! The figure at my back is not my friend; The hand upon my shoulder turns to horn. I found my father when I did my work, Only to lose myself in this small dark. Though it reject dry borders of the seen, What sensual eye can keep and image pure, Leaning across a sill to greet the dawn? A slow growth is a hard thing to endure. When figures our of obscure shadow rave, All sensual love’s but dancing on a grave. The wall has entered: I must love the wall, A madman staring at perpetual night, A spirit raging at the visible. I breathe alone until my dark is bright. Dawn’s where the white is. Who would know the dawn When there’s a dazzling dark behind the sun. 4. The Exulting Once I delighted in a single tree; The loose air sent me running like a child– I love the world; I want more than the world, Or after image of the inner eye. Flesh cries to flesh, and bone cries out to bone; I die into this life, alone yet not alone. Was it a god his suffering renewed?– I saw my father shrinking in his skin; He turned his face: there was another man, Walking the edge, loquacious, unafraid. He quivered like a bird in birdless air, Yet dared to fix his vision anywhere. Fish feed on fish, according to their need: My enemies renew me, and my blood Beats slower in my careless solitude. I bare a wound, and dare myself to bleed. I think a bird, and it begins to fly. By dying daily, I have come to be. All exultation is a dangerous thing. I see you, love, I see you in a dream; I hear a noise of bees, a trellis hum, And that slow humming rises into song. A breath is but a breath: I have the earth; I shall undo all dying with my death. 5. They Sing, They Sing All women loved dance in a dying light– The moon’s my mother: how I love the moon! Out of her place she comes, a dolphin one, Then settles back to shade and the long night. A beast cries out as if its flesh were torn, And that cry takes me back where I was born. Who thought love but a motion in the mind? Am I but nothing, leaning towards a thing? I scare myself with sighing, or I’ll sing; Descend O gentlest light, descend, descend. I sweet field far ahead, I hear your birds, They sing, they sing, but still in minor thirds. I’ve the lark’s word for it, who sings alone: What’s seen recededs; Forever’s what we know!– Eternity defined, and strewn with straw, The fury of the slug beneath the stone. The vision moves, and yet remains the same. In heaven’s praise, I dread the thing I am. The edges of the summit still appall When we brood on the dead or the beloved; Nor can imagination do it all In this last place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.

On the other hand, lived consciously, the goddess Inanna in her role as suffering, exiled feminine provides an image of the deity who can, perhaps, carry the suffering and redemption of modern women. Closer to many of us than the Church's Christ, she suggests an archetypal pattern which can give meaning to women's quest, one which may supplant the Christian myth for those unable to relate to a masculine God. Inanna's suffering, disrobing, humiliation, flagellation and death, the stations of her descent, her ¨crucifixion¨ on the underworld peg, and her resurrection, all prefigure Christ's passion and represent perhaps the first known archetypal image of the dying divinity whose sacrifice redeems the wasteland earth. Not for humankind's sins did Inanna sacrifice herself, but for earth's need for life and renewal. She is concerned more with life than with good and evil. Nonetheless, her descent and return provide a model for our own psychological-spiritual journeys. And unlike Christ's story, where the destructive acts perpetrated on the savior were the product of mere human malice and fear—and thus capable of establishing a pattern of human revenge and scapegoating—in the Sumerian poem they are shown to have a transpersonal source. The goddess destroys, just as the goddess may redeem.¨

At the heart of the kind of understanding involved in the humanities another dimension of reason is involved, which one can perhaps call contemplative. Take the example of attempting to read, or understand, a poem. There is an element of problem-solving: the meaning of certain words no longer, perhaps, in current use, the detecting of allusions to the literary tradition to which the poem belongs these can sometimes be ‘solved’ and a definitive answer produced. But having done all that, we have not finished: we have only begun —we have, as we might say, cleared the ground for an attempt to read, to understand, the poem. Here something else is involved: not a restless attempt to solve problems, to reach a kind of clarity, but rather an attempt to listen, to engage with the meaning of the poet, to hear what he has to say. We shall not do that if we misunderstand the meaning he attached to his words, or miss his allusion, but we do not necessarily hear the poet if we have simply solved all such problems. What is needed is a sympathetic listening, an engagement with the mind of the poet, and this sort of understanding has no end. There is no definitive solution: understanding is a matter of engagement, and constantly renewed engagement. WHAT is understood is much more elusive in this case than what is understood when we solve a problem. It is not a matter of facts, but a matter of reality: the reality of human life, its engagement with others, its engagement with God.

We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; — World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample a kingdom down. We, in the ages lying, In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself in our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. A breath of our inspiration Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming Unearthly, impossible seeming — The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done. They had no vision amazing Of the goodly house they are raising; They had no divine foreshowing Of the land to which they are going: But on one man's soul it hath broken, A light that doth not depart; And his look, or a word he hath spoken, Wrought flame in another man's heart. And therefore to-day is thrilling With a past day's late fulfilling; And the multitudes are enlisted In the faith that their fathers resisted, And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Are bringing to pass, as they may, In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, The dream that was scorned yesterday. But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see, Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye. For we are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry — How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God's future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die. Great hail! we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore; Bring us hither your sun and your summers; And renew our world as of yore; You shall teach us your song's new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before: Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, And a singer who sings no more.

And how unfair it would be to torture your heart in never feeling again, because of a feeling you haven't even tried to understand yet.

I put my faith in something unknown, beyond the moon, sun, and stars, one day I will own. I put my faith in something, renew. Beyond the rivers, deserts, mountains and valleys.One day it shall become new. I cannot renounce the struggle But yes, it’s what this destiny holds The pain is worst. My heart is whole and will not burst.I live on sweet nothing.I am tired of hope, when this dream is not in the scope. I told the pope, he told me to hold on to life and use the rope.I put my faith in you, this is too good to be true.

The Divine Feminine Tao Invites Us to Act The Lao-Tzu’s Tao Te Ching portrays the Tao as “mother,” “virgin,” and “womb.” She is the “immortal void” who endlessly “returns to source” to renew life again and again. Quoting from my own translation of Poem 6 (Anderson, in press), the Tao is The immortal void Called the dark womb, the dark womb’s gate From her Creation takes root An unbroken gossamer That prevails without effort. From her “dark womb,” all life flows. To align with the Tao as mother, virgin, and womb is to discover her path to peace and wellbeing with ourselves, each other, the earth, and the natural world. At a time in history when human greed and aggression are out of control and threatening life as we know it, her message to us is also a warning. The great message of the Tao Te Ching is the ordinariness of peace and wellbeing that arises from spontaneous action that seeks no gain for the self. This is to enact the path of wei wu wei, meaning to act without acting or do without doing. Wei wu wei does not mean doing nothing, not thinking, not traveling, not initiating projects, not cooking dinner, not planting a garden in the spring, and so on. To the contrary. For in leaving self-gain aside, our actions arise naturally and spontaneously to meet concrete situations and events without plotting or maneuvering in advance or expecting to be liked, appreciated, or rewarded for what we do. Aligning with the Tao is to seek what is lowest and most needy like a mother might act naturally and spontaneously on behalf of a child in danger. Quoting from my translation of Poem 8 (Anderson, in press): The highest good is like water Bringing goodness to all things without struggle In seeking low places spurned by others The Tao resembles water. In so doing, we attend to what matters most—not tomorrow but right now. Per the situation, our actions may be swift or slow, but they will in time resolve obstacles at their source in the same way that water carves out canyons and moves mountains. What matters most will vary for each of us. This is wei wu wei in action. Over time, enacting this feminine path to peace will impact all our relations with others, including animals and other species, each other, our families and communities, the conduct of governments, relationships between nations and peoples, and with planet Earth. The wisdoms of the Divine Feminine Tao may be applied to our personal initiatives and our response to personal and modern crises, including meeting the challenges of the current coronavirus pandemic. Wei wu wei invites us to act spontaneously and naturally like water, determining its own course and leaving self-gain aside.

Antinous is dead, is dead for ever, Is dead for ever and all loves lament Venus herself, that was Adonis lover, Seeing him, that newly lived, now dead again, Lends her old grief's renewal to be blent With Hadrian's pain.

Know that there’s nothing more optimistic than springtime in Paradise Valley, but if you need year-round renewal memorize this line from a Richard Hugo poem set in Philipsburg so you have it handy for life’s little cold snaps: “The car that brought you here still runs.

It's one thing to remember, another to get stuck. Why don't people buy notepads and write poems instead of sit around on historical poem-pillows watching TV? Why not renew Romanticism, re-clarify the relationship between creation and memory?

I memorized Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem “Renascence,” all eight pages. I said it to myself often. The words were so beautiful they made me happy to hear, but it was the sadness and the pain and the renewal that gave me hope.

For everything that comes is a gift, the meaning always carried out of sight to renew our whereabouts, always a starting place. And every gift is perfect in its beginning, for it is “from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights.

Sonnet of Renewable Energy There is a plug point in the sky, Which is beaming electricity 24/7. Yet we drill holes into the earth, To suck oil and power our concrete heaven. When humankind first started drilling, They had no idea of its implication. But eventually scientists raised warnings, Yet drilling continued due to lack of efficient solution. Fossil fuel has already damaged the climate, And we no longer have time for scholarly fight. So I say to scientists, engineers and entrepreneurs, Come up with affordable home solar-grid. Electric cars won't do anything for climate emergency, Unless all electricity comes from renewable energy.

POEM: "THE LORD" - Lailah Gifty Akita The Lord blesses. The Lord baptises. The Lord encourages. The Lord enlightens. The Lord edifies. The Lord empowers. The Lord heals. The Lord hears. The Lord helps. The Lord protects. The Lord provides. The Lord punishes. The Lord prepares. The Lord purifies. The Lord performs. The Lord gives. The Lord guards. The Lord guides. The Lord teaches. The Lord touches. The Lord answers. The Lord judges. The Lord defends. The Lord defeats. The Lord leads. The Lord loves. The Lord lights. The Lord creates. The Lord comforts. The Lord conquers. The Lord favours. The Lord forgives. The Lord fulfills. The Lord supplies. The Lord strengthens. The Lord sacrifices. The Lord sanctifies. The Lord saves. The Lord rescues. The Lord reveals. The Lord renews. The Lord rewards. The Lord reigns. The Lord restores. The Lord revives. The Lord relents. The Lord rules. The Lord opens. The Lord overcomes. The Lord instructs. The Lord manifests. The Lord shows mercy. The Lord warns.

You might even say there is a tree for every mood and every moment. When you have something precious to give to the universe, a song or a poem, you should first share it with a golden oak before anyone else. If you are feeling discouraged and defenceless, look for a Mediterranean cypress or a flowering horse chestnut. Both are strikingly resilient, and they will tell you about all the fires they have survived. And if you want to emerge stronger and kinder from your trials, find an aspen to learn from – a tree so tenacious it can fend off even the flames that aim to destroy it. If you are hurting and have no one willing to listen to you, it might do you good to spend time beside a sugar maple. If, on the other hand, you are suffering from excessive self-esteem, do pay a visit to a cherry tree and observe its blossoms, which, though undoubtedly pretty, are no less ephemeral than vainglory. By the time you leave, you might feel a bit more humble, more grounded. To reminisce about the past, seek out a holly to sit under; to dream about the future, choose a magnolia instead. And if it is friends and friendships on your mind, the most suitable companion would be a spruce or a ginkgo. When you arrive at a crossroads and don’t know which path to take, contemplating quietly by a sycamore might help. If you are an artist in need of inspiration, a blue jacaranda or a sweetly scented mimosa could stir your imagination. If it is renewal you are after, seek a wych elm, and if you have too many regrets, a weeping willow will offer solace. When you are in trouble or at your lowest point, and have no one in whom to confide, a hawthorn would be the right choice. There is a reason why hawthorns are home to fairies and known to protect pots of treasure. For wisdom, try a beech; for intelligence, a pine; for bravery, a rowan; for generosity, a hazel; for joy, a juniper; and for when you need to learn to let go of what you cannot control, a birch with its white-silver bark, peeling and shedding layers like old skins. Then again, if it’s love you’re after, or love you have lost, come to the fig, always the fig.

RENEWAL Imagine not that life is all doing. Stillness, too, is life; and in that stillness the mind cluttered with busyness quiets, the heart reaching to win rests, and we hear the whispered truths of God. —rabbi rami m. shapiro

The scars on your heart are your lessons, that love will survive despite heartbreaks. they are reminders that love is not flawless as they have advertised. They are symbols that just like autumn well all need renewing and healing.

Endless Love Like the river never stops, I too shall never stop loving you, Like those shining stars, I too shall always shine for you, Like the wind that paces through the forest where I spent few moments with you, I too shall in that forest of memories always seek you, just you, Maybe it is my compulsive proneness that I only seek you, In my wakeful state and in my subconscious slumbers I only think of you, Maybe it is my memories that refuse to exist without you, And before this stubbornness of my mind and heart , I surrender and I allow myself to love you, just you, In the Summer garden where many roses bloom, I find none like you, Like the desperate butterflies seeking their flowers of choice, in the garden of life, I only seek you, just you, The roses have wilted, butterfly wings lie strewn on the grass blades, and they all remind me of you, But unlike the changing seasons, my heart always stays in the perennial state of loving you, Everything in this universe seems to be seeking something or someone, just like I endlessly seek you, In the summer joys, in the forest wind, in the gushing river, wherever I see, I just see a reflection of you, As the palpable world grows around me in these transient forms, I seek my world within you, In your beautiful eyes, in your smiles, in your scent and in every essence that reflects you, I transpose these beautiful reflections on this world, until everything looks like you, exactly like you, Maybe Irma, love is what I feel when I see you, when I touch you, when I just say nothing and simply sit beside you, And the palpable world transforms into your smile, and I resume loving you, In the forest of my endless memories of you, Where I often tread in the brightness of the day and the silence of the night, to be with you, just you, The river still flows, the stars still twinkle, the forest still grows, and with them your love in my heart grows too, I have entered a precarious state where there is only one certainty, that to keep on loving you, And wonder if you feel so too, I have every reason to believe you do too Irma, because the trails of life we tread together, still remind me of you, and there at discrete corners I hear the echoes of your longings too, And then my heart whispers, while my mind quietly lets it be its own master, “I love you!” And the river of my feelings gains a renewed momentum to rush endlessly and forever unto you, And as lovers, we fill our senses where you become me and I become you, And what a joy it is to love you, And say again and again, “my darling Irma. I love you!

Our love Many moments, many of them, Sometimes I look at her and often at them, Like these moments of time , everywhere she is, Here she is, there she is, wherever I maybe there she is, She lives in these moments of time, Sometimes walking unto me like the memories of time, No matter where I might be, She always finds me via these moments of time, and that is how she wants it to be, Her beauty lying seeded in moments of time, Until she herself becomes an inseparable part of time, Then she can anywhere be, To be my endless joy, For I shall then only behold her wherever I might see, And what a tragedy for the poor mirror it shall be, Casting my reflection, but in the mirror too only her, just her I see, Then what might become of life as it circles around her, Because by now time too has come to love her, Time is wherever she is, And I am wherever she is, Life waits longingly and for her time has no moments to spare, It has lent all its moments to her, that for life it was meant to spare, So her beauty grows and glows everyday, As time renews her every atom of beauty everyday, And as in this wonder of beauty she grows, My mind in her fondness grows, Today time has spent its entire reserve of moments, Now it has nothing left, no seconds, no minutes, no hours, no days, and no moments, So I hold her hand and bring her to the mirror, And together we stand before this well glazed mirror, And now it is the mirror, both of us in it, and time frozen forever, We continue to live in the mirror but time and everything else have lost their virtues forever, For when time gifted her spare moments, actually meant to renew life and its forms, It created a parallel universe of time, where her beauty and my love are the only life’s forms, And this is how it shall be my love, To love and live in these moments filled with the memories of our love.

She and her kisses It was Saturday afternoon, The Summer Sun shone bright, And there she was as usual basking in the casual moments of the noon, While I stood there looking at her beautiful face in the Summer light, She turned sideways and sometimes I could only see her back, And as her locks of hair descended downwards from her shoulders, I could witness in the daylight the magic of the beautiful black, It was a beautiful sight for all heavenly and earthly beholders, To see her splendor of beauty humble the Summer light, And what made her even more beautiful was her ignorance of this fact, That she was brighter than the summer light and during the night she was the envy of moonlight, And with time she seemed to have a secret pact, For the afternoon sun had now set behind the horizon of dusk, But she and her beauty were still embalmed by a mysterious eternal light, That charged at the keeper of time like the ferocious tusk, And guarded her beauty like the most devout knight, When she finally stood up and left the place, I followed the trail of her scent, her shadows and her feet, And there I saw her enter a grand palace of grace, The residence of beautiful innocence made radiant by acts of kindness that nothing can defeat, Because time and beauty are the gatekeepers of this place, Where she sleeps and renews her youth, her charms and her sensitive acts of tenderness, Then in a moment she vanishes behind the veil of sleep without leaving any trace, On the fleeting moments of time, so nobody knows how she attains this beautiful grace of absolute calmness, Maybe it is her ability to look at men and women differently, For no matter who she comes across she greets them genuinely, And offers them a smile of kindness fondly, And it is these acts, small insignificant acts of kindness that flash on her face so beautifully, That is why I love her, even if it means looking at her from the distance, Because I seek not that smile of kindness that she offers to all, I love to be with her and feel that secret romance, That has enslaved time to her commands and makes her the most beautiful woman of all, Someday when the sun has set and the moonlight is bright, And she travels in her dreams into the kingdom of time and eternity, There I shall be her dream, to be so then every night, And then that is what I shall love to be her and my eternity, Where she kisses me, And we lie cocooned in the shell of love, With time winding its silk strings around me, As she kisses me like the rain drops of love, Then as the silk cocoon of time preserves us both, I shall confess to her, under the afternoon Sun, That for her I was the moth, That died a billion times just to let her face, be the beauty’s eternal Sun, So she owes me a moment of love, with a billion kisses, And as she agrees we both shall sleep in the cocoon of time together, Nothing to separate us, not even light, we shall then grow as a grand feeling of love thriving on kisses, And grow in the cocoon of eternal time where love and kisses shall be the only weather.

And the shadow gathers and becomes a tidal wave a tidal wave with riding sea gulls darkened. And the port-side heart sizzles in a breaker. Death and renewal when the wave arrives. The gathering of white birds grew: gulls dressed in canvas from the sails of foundered ships but stained by vapors from forbidden shores. The herring gull: a harpoon with a velvet back. In closeup like a snowed-in hull with hidden pulses glittering in rhythm. His flier’s nerves in balance. He soars. Footless hanging in the wind he dreams his hunter’s dream with his beak’s sharp shot.

No one knows you're gone. The police still want donations from you And they summoned you for jury duty. The Economist wants you to take advantage of an early renewal offer And so does National Geographic. An acquaintance asks how you are doing (I shake my head) And a new friend wonders About your picture on my phone. They didn't know you. Because if they did, They would know That it is a different world now.

She! The gaze of night fell on her, She looked towards the moon, As I walked closer to her, As did the silver brightness of the Moon, Covering her in her silver attire, I stopped to witness the wonder that she was, Wearing the Moon’s silver attire, She looked more graceful than she already was, Then in the distance, the wind kissed few flowers, And bearing their scent it kissed her everywhere too, Now she smelled lovelier than all the flowers, And the most fragrant, wild roses too, The night grew darker and the moon grew brighter, And she shone like the sparkling, silver coloured gem, When she smiled, trust me nothing could look brighter, Than her eyes that bore the brilliance of the most resplendent gem, Sometimes when wind appeared around her to renew her scents, It ruffled her hair like a lover who is little shy, But tonight she shone with the beauty of nature’s bliss and its scents, While I with the night gaze looked at her bewildered, but least shy, So I held her hand, as the birds, for her, their songs of love sang, She looked at me and smiled, while gently winking her eyes, Where I captured the beauty of the skies, and then our hearts together sang, While I dived into her eyes and she finally accepted to forever dwell in my eyes, So I do not sleep now because there is no need to dream, Her dreams, her imaginations and memories bearing her scenes, Because in my eyes she lives like a beautiful sensation, that is missing in a dream, So if you see me awake during the nights, I am somewhere with her in my eyes, discovering her beauty’s endless scenes!

Victor’s attitude It was a narrow passage, But it led people into a new age, Where everything was wide and filled with grandeur, Kissed by the hope, enabling them to strive and endure, As life stretched its checkerboard of new moves, And chance and fate filled its groves, Those who had reached there via this narrow passage, Received for his/her effort a due wage, Because it led them all into the world of deeds, Where only actions matter, nothing else, no castes and no creeds, As they reached there hope greeted them all, And she whispered to them, “no matter what happens rise every time you fall, Because everything may be working against you, Do not forget I am always on your side, because I was born just for you!” Then all get pitched against life and its main actor “the chance,” And based on its wishes all play the game of life and to its tunes they begin to dance, Many lose after few blows, a few after many blows, but some rise after every fall, And it is then life makes them experience the might of fate, and thus ensues the grand brawl, Where life, chance and fate form the formidable side, While men and women on the other end reside, And life offers them blows of chance and fate, Most of them are sent sooner than expected behind the graveyard's always open gate, But few rise from their graves too because they never lose hope, They remember her whispers and it becomes their renewed courage’s most befitting trope, And as life begins to feel weary, because it runs short of its reserves of chances, And fate too appears to have exhausted all its probabilities and likelihoods of adding new steps to life’s dances, The victor is born, who never rests until he/she is dead, Because a true victor is not by life, but by his/her attitude fed!

Rae’s thoughts and hope He preached, he prayed, in a place, in a congregation, He possessed an extraordinary imagination, A charm that mesmerised all, made him a believable preacher, But after prayers, the preacher never returned and so did not the holy teacher, Because what he appeared in these holy sessions was a false projection of him, Behind his conscience and veil of charm was hidden an abominable world grim, Like in all of us, he too was a host to a resident beast, Who regularly on his fancies and endless wishes did feast, He had resolved to taming the congregation and not the beast he was constantly feeding, Within him, with a renewed virility, new forms of evil were breeding, As the congregation left and he eased his hands held in prayer, He frantically shook them to get rid of the evil layer, That he recognised but never wanted to let go, Maybe that is why the priest that stood here was forsaken by his priestly conscience long ago, So after every prayer, the preacher never returned, just a man with the beast did, And then behind the morbidity of thoughts and endless fantasies this man hid, To feed the beast in million ways, In those vacant hours of nights and endless days, Because after the prayers the preacher never returned, only his beast affiliated part faced everyone, As he fed himself on diabolic thoughts and vile imaginations of always someone, a new one, And this is how the preacher lived until his last day, He was still the same and he had decided not to change anyway, And when Lucifer claimed his soul, he was confused too, Because the beast in him was there so was the preacher too, It was difficult to tell them apart, And neither of them alone wanted to depart, They had fused into one and Lucifer gave them a puzzled look, Then he looked inside himself and he was completely shaken, and the ground under his feet shook, The beast had already claimed his soul unaware that he is the God of Hell, the creator of all abomination, So he cast the beast back into the preacher and now they live in this immortal curse of incarceration, Where the preacher feels imprisoned by the beast and beast feels imprisoned by the preacher, Because after knowing the soul of Lucifer the beast had become lot meaner, Thus began the preacher’s never ending curse, He does not die, although he longs for it and keeps staring at the hearse, Because Lucifer did not want a greater God in his own kingdom, Now preacher is the victim of his own knowledge of evil and his wretched wisdom, The congregation is free, because they have learned to establish direct communion with the God, And now they don’t have to deal with the preacher who always after prayers acted diabolically and in ways odd.

From ancient lore to modern science poets are supposed to be the revelators, the prophets and the seers. Poets are supposed to shine the light in the dark corners where there is none or just a mere amount capable of hope through words . But? What if being a poet doesn't mean any of these things in the 21st century? Are we evolving or are we losing our focus ? In great testaments to the art of writing we make grand statements like " Poetry Matters" " Poetry Is Still Alive & Well" But unless we actually push forth these antiquated ideals and reboot them into the new we really are no longer something that humanity needs. Reinvent these old ideals. Write & create in the now. Renew the waters of creation which we thrive in. And for fucks sake. Invoke Alexa if you have to !

Let blessings only dwell here, yes, / not one phantasm of the past, / for now begins the exorcism / evicting darkness at long last. (from Renovation of a Soul)

Tears fall like liquid leaves into the streams and full, autumn-coloured rivers of our blood And liquid leaves become crystal in our winter fortress before they flow shifting, changing rich red by grace of autumn and fertile in the spring

Maybe one day you'll see me latched barkside to that tree, teasing my way out of the skin I'm in until I plunk into the dirt. Until I slither then fly. Shiny and high. Leaving only an effigy— a hollowed-out replica behind.

Rushing toward his friend as if he races the pain races to him, struggles with sorrow. Raman crossed the green fields between them. Since they met, they did not part, and they vowed not to do so. -“I will not leave him alone, I will be his father, brother, and friend”, this is how he took a vow to himself when he saw his friend crying and complaining about his father’s departure to war. Thus, he renewed the covenant on the day he saw him silent and alone, with his mother placing in his hands the farewell poem. A hand patted his shoulder, wrapped towards him, and hugged him – my friend, he is gone. – he will come back, Raman, my father promised me that he will come back on Eid morning. – Ruslan, he can’t keep this promise anymore. Now, it is Eid, let’s play and have fun. – No, Eid will never come unless my father comes, Eid will never come unless my father comes.

Atlantis People would whisper about us And our fall from grace As our world fell to ruin And our worst fears were realized, We’d be submerged and forgotten The stuff of speculation. Legend at best, We were a lost city, Singing our siren ballads Of heartbreak and woe From the depths below, We were here! We were here. We were here…

Within the folds of our solitude, we unexpectedly discover the roots of genuine hospitality. Solitude is the foundation for kinship. As Rilke noted in his Letters to a Young Poet, love “consists of two solitudes which border, protect, and greet each other.”64 During our vigil in the depths, we are being prepared for the great work of loving again. David Whyte offers this revelation from his poem “Ten Years Later.” one small thing I’ve learned these years, how to be alone, and at the edge of aloneness how to be found by the world.

This beautiful poem by Rashani Réa, “The Unbroken,” offers us a glimpse into what we may find nestled inside our deepest sorrows. There is a brokenness out of which comes the unbroken, a shatteredness out of which blooms the unshatterable. There is a sorrow beyond all grief which leads to joy and a fragility out of whose depths emerges strength. There is a hollow space too vast for words through which we pass with each loss, out of whose darkness we are sanctified into being. There is a cry deeper than all sound whose serrated edges cut the heart as we break open to the place inside which is unbreakable and whole, while learning to sing.

The fireplace The embers in the fireplace were dying slowly, And their golden sheen that fell on her face was stealing her from me, Because the embers that no longer shimmered resplendently, Faded somewhere in the fireplace leaving her cold beside me, Because a part of her had escaped with these golden embers, Her warm and loving heart was now in their custody, So I let my cold heart participate in some organic vitriol to lament their untimely slumbers, The sleeping embers and in them a part of her sleeping too, leaving me behind to face this emotional fatality, Where her cold part lies motionless beside me and beside the cold fireplace, Only to awaken when the embers burn once again, And her heart feels the renewed and a warmer pace, Hopefully the embers do not die again then all this burning will be invain, But burning is the fate of few, their only destiny, So, I am sure when it is time the embers will shimmer in their golden fire, Until that happens let me establish with her cold heart and her cold part, a warm fraternity, And feel the warmth of my every unfulfilled desire, In this hope I keep staring at the ash gray fireplace, Where the embers have died, and where her warm part lies somewhere, But whether it is cold or warm, her sensations with no other I wish to replace, Because embers are meant to burn in the fireplace and nowhere, It is a new day and the sun has not risen yet, But there is a pulse of golden waves forming across the fireplace, And outside, the rain that lasted the entire night has left everything wet, Except one place, my own space, I call the sacred fireplace, Because that is where my emotions burn with flames of desires, And now everything is covered in a warm and golden sheen, While my heart tries to separate flames from burning fires, I over her warm part in emotional relays lean!

The fireplace The embers in the fireplace were dying slowly, And their golden sheen that fell on her face was stealing her from me, Because the embers that no longer shimmered resplendently, Faded somewhere in the fireplace leaving her cold beside me, Because a part of her had been imprisoned by these golden embers, Her warm and loving heart was now in their custody, So I let my cold heart lament their untimely slumbers, The sleeping embers and in them a part of her sleeping too, leaving me behind to face this emotional fatality, Where her cold part lies motionless beside me and beside the cold fireplace, Only to awaken when the embers burn once again, And her heart feels the renewed and a warmer pace, Hopefully the embers do not die again then all this burning will be invain, But burning is the fate of few, their only destiny, So, I am sure when it is time the embers will shimmer in their golden fire, Until that happens let me establish with her cold heart and her cold part, a warm fraternity, And feel the warmth of my every unfulfilled desire, In this hope I keep staring at the ash filled fireplace, Where the embers have died, and where her warm part lies somewhere, But whether it is cold or warm, her sensations with no other I wish to replace, Because embers are meant to burn in the fireplace, else nowhere, It is a new day and the sun has not risen yet, But there is a pulse of golden waves forming across the fireplace, And outside, the rain that lasted the entire night has left everything wet, Except one place, my own space, I call the sacred fireplace, Because that is where my emotions burn with flames of desires, And now everything is covered in a warm and golden sheen, While my heart tries to separate flames from burning fires, I over her warm part in emotional relays lean!