Te kjo teme kam deshire te postojm, jo cdo poem te bukur qe mund te kemi lexuar, por vetem ato qe kan len impresion mbi ju!
Te kjo teme kam deshire te postojm, jo cdo poem te bukur qe mund te kemi lexuar, por vetem ato qe kan len impresion mbi ju!
Matthew Arnold
1822-1888
THE BURIED LIFE
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.
Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!
But we, my love!--doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?--must we too be dumb?
Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!
Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be--
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity--
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.
But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us--to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves--
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well--but 'tis not true!
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only--but this is rare--
When a belov{'e}d hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.
And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.
Ndryshuar pėr herė tė fundit nga Veshtrusja : 09-12-2004 mė 20:04
Nga tė gjitha qė kam lexuar , mė impresionuesja ka qenė dhe mbetet "KORBI" i Edgar Allan Poe-s .Postuar mė parė nga Veshtrusja
Jashtėzakonisht e bukur dhe mbresėlėnėse .
Where does a thought go when it's forgotten?
Njera nga me te bukurat dhe me impresionantet per mua:
The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde
I.
He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellows got to swing."
Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.
___
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
___
He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty place
We didn't land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on us.
Korasonka kishte te drejte pak
Korbi eshte nje nga poezite me mahnitese te te gjithe koherave
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door --
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; --
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you " -- here I opened wide the door; ----
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" --
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
We didn't land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on us.
Kur te jesh merzitur shume
Ketu sdo jem do jem larguar
Ne toke I tretur, sit e tjeret
Ne kafenene e preferuar
Nuk do me shohin me kamarieret
Dhe neper rruget ku kam ecur
Sdo ndjehet kola ime e thate
Mbi varrin tim do rrije I heshtur
Nje qiparis-si murg I ngrate
Po kur te jesh merzitur shume
Ne raft te librave kerkome
Atje I fshehur do jem une
Ne ndonje fjale a ndonje shkronje
Mjafton qe librin pak ta heqesh
Dhe une do zbres, do vij pas teje
Ti si dikur me mall do qeshesh
Si nje blerim pas nje rrekeje
Dhe une do zbres,
Do vij pas teje, do vij
Ketu sdo jem do jem larguar
Ne toke I tretur, sit e tjeret
Ne kafenene e preferuar
Nuk do me shohin kamarieret
Ti do trishtohesh atehere
Se sdo me kesh ne dhome te gjalle
Dhe kur ne xham te fryje ere
Do qash me eren, dale nga dale.
D. agolli
cdo gje kalon, por sa e dhimbshme eshte ne momentin qe e perjeton
Lenesha(elegji) Federico Garcia Lorka
Si kremtar i mbushur me deshira,
Ti ecen ne mbremjen e ndritshme, te kthjellet,
Me lekuren e zeshket ku nardi vyshket
Dhe ne veshtrimet e tua klith seksi.
Te goja jote duket melankolia
E pastertise se ftohte te vdekjes.
Ne kupen dionizake te barkut tend,
Nje merimange end nje pelhure shterpe,
Qe mbulon vendin ku slulezuan kurre
Trendafilat e gjalle qe nga puthjet lindin.
Ne duart e bardha, ti mban lemshin e endrrave
Qe vdiqen pergjithmone, ndersa shpirtin
Ta zhurit etja per te puthura te zjarrta,
Per nje dashuri nene bashke me vegime
Te largeta djepi, per nje vater te qete
Ku ti kaltrine e ninullave do te tirrje.
Po ta prekte trupin tend dashuria e fjetur,
Ceres, do te jepte kallinjte e tu te praruar.
Si virgjeresha, ti do te kishe mundesi
Te nxirrje nga gjinjte e tu nje Udhe Qumeshti.
Ti do te vyshkesh si nje lule manjolie.
Askush sdo ta puthe trupin tend plot afshe.
Floket e tu sdo te njohin ledhatime
Qe do ti dritheronin si tela harpe.
O grua e beshme, eben dhe jasemin,
Fryma jote ka freski lulesh qe sapo u hapen,
Afrodite me mantilje, ti me sjell ne mend
Veren e Malagas dhe kitaren.
O mjellme e zeshket qe noton ne nje liqen
Me lotuse te rritura, me vale te portokallta,
Me karafila te kuq, ku shkulma kundermon
Folete e roitura qe ti mban nen flatra,
Martire andaluze, grua e mbetur beronje,
Cjane puthjet e perflakura ti se di,
Puthjet e perziera me heshtje te thelle nate
Dhe me zhurmen e turbullt te ujit qe rri.
Rrathet e syve te zmadhohen perdite,
Floket e zinj pot e mbulohen me bore
Gjinjte e tu eremire po i humbasin konturet
Dhe po te kerruset shpina madheshtore.
O grua e perveluar, me pamje nene,
Shenmeri e dhimbjes qe te zemra jote
Ku sot e tutje smungullon asnje shprese,
Tere yjet e qiellit pa ane i mblodhe,
Ti je shembelltyre e nje Andaluzie
Qe vuan nga pasione te heshtura, te fuqishme,
Me fryme erashkash, ajo i perkund
Nen mantiljet qe mbeshtjellin gushen e hijshme
Te vashave ku ka fergellima gjaku e bore,
Te gervishura te kuqe qe lane shikimet.
Neper mjegullen e vjeshtes, ti ecen, virgjereshe,
Si Inesi, Sesilja dhe Klara e embel,
Bakante qe mund te hidhje valle
Me nje kurore lastari dhe rrushi te bere.
Pikellimi pa fund qe te rri pezull ne sy,
Na flet per jeten tende te rrenuar,
Per dekorin shkretan, per monotonine qe ndien,
Kur ne dritare sheh njerzit duke kaluar,
Kur degjon ne merzine e nje humbetire
Shiun qe bie ne rrugen e vjeter,
Ndersa nga larg, ulerima e kambanave
Vjen tek ti e mbytur, e lemeket.
Me kot e pergjon zhurimerimen e ajrit
Ku ste zuri veshi nje serenade asnjehere.
Ti ende pret prapa xhamave te tu
Chidherim i thelle qe zemren tat her,
Kur ndien ne veten e lodhur, te shteruar,
Pasionin e ri te nje vajze te re!
Trupi yt do te shkoje ne varr,
I pangasheryer kurre.
Do te mbije nje albe
Mbi dheun e murme.
Nga syte e tu do te dalin karafile te kuq,
Trendafila bore te bardhe-nga gjiri yt,
Por pikellimi yt i madh do te ngjitet kah qielli,
duke eklipsuar e plagosur tere yjte.
cdo gje kalon, por sa e dhimbshme eshte ne momentin qe e perjeton
Queen Elizabeth I (15331603)
[The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy]
The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy;
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects' faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web.
But clouds of joys untried do cloak aspiring minds,
Which turn to rain of late repent by changed course of winds.
The top of hope supposed the root upreared shall be,
And fruitless all their grafted guile, as shortly ye shall see.
The dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds,
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds.
The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow
Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath taught to know.
No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port;
Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them elsewhere resort.
My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge employ
To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for future joy.
Dmth qe edhe mbretereshat dijne te shkruajne.:)
We didn't land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on us.
JACQUES PREVERT (1900-1977)
KJO DASHURI
Kjo dashuri
Kaq e dhunshme
Kaq e brishtė
Kaq e ngrohtė
Kaq e dėshpėruar
Kjo dashuri
E bukur si dita
Dhe e keqe si koha
Kur koha ėshtė e keqe
Kjo dashuri kaq e vėrtetė
Kjo dashuri kaq e bukur
Kaq e lumtur
Kaq e gėzuar
Dhe kaq qesharake
Qė dridhet nga frika si njė fėmijė nė terr
Dhe kaq e sigurtė
Si njė burrė i qetė nė mes tė natės
Kjo dashuri qė u bėnte frikė tė tjerėve
Qė i bėnte pėr tė folur
Qė i bėnte pėr t'u zverdhur
Kjo dashuri e pėrgjuar
Sepse ne e pėrgjonim
E pėrndjekur e plagosur e shkelur e vrarė e mohuar e harruar
Sepse ne e kemi pėrndjekur shkelur vrarė mohuar harruar
Kjo dashuri e tėrė
Kaq e gjallė akoma
Dhe plot diell
Eshtė e jotja
Eshtė e imja
Ajo qė ka qenė
Kjo gjė gjithmonė tė reja
Dhe qė nuk ka ndryshuar
Po aq e vėrtetė sa njė bimė
Po aq drithėruese sa njė zog
Po aq e nxehtė dhe e gjallė sa vera
Ne mundemi qė tė dy
Tė shkojmė dhe tė kthehemi
Ne mundemi tė harrojmė
Dhe pastaj tė flemė
Tė zgjohemi vuajmė mplakemi
Tė flemė akoma
Tė ėndėrrojmė vdekjen
Tė zgjohemi buzėqeshim dhe qeshim
Dhe tė rinohemi
Dashuria jonė mbetet aty
Kokėfortė si njė shkėmb
E gjallė si dėshira
Mizore si kujtesa
E marrė si keqardhjet
E ngrohtė si kujtimi
E ftohtė si mermeri
E bukur si dita
E brishtė si njė fėmijė
Ajo n'a shikon duke buzėqeshur
Dhe n'a flet pa thėnė asgjė
Dhe unė dėgjoj duke u dridhur
Dhe thėrras
Thėrras pėr ty
Thėrras pėr mua
Tė pėrgjėrohem
Pėr ty pėr mua dhe pėr tė gjithė ata qė duhen
Dhe qė janė dashur
Po i thėrras asaj
Pėr ty pėr mua dhe pėr tė gjithė tė tjerėt
Qė nuk i njoh
Qėndro aty
Aty ku ti je
Aty ku ti ishe dikur
Qėndro aty
Mos lėviz
Mos shko
Ne qė jemi dashur
Ne tė kemi harruar
Ti mos n'a harro
Ne vetėm ty tė kemi mbi tokė
Mos n'a lėr tė kthehemi tė ftohtė
Shumė mė larg akoma
Dhe ska rėndėsi ku
N'a jep shenjė jete
Shumė mė vonė nė qoshe tė njė druri
Nė pyllin e kujtesės
E behur befas
N'a zgjat dorėn neve
Dhe n'a shpėto.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding- riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
Trot-trot; trot-trot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Trot-trot, trot-trot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding, riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
Trot-trot, in the frosty silence! Trot-trot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed,
With her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back,he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding- riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Nė mundesh
Nė mundsh ta ruash arsyen, kur bota humbet fillin
e fajin ty ta hedh dhe vetes ti besosh,
sa herė tek ti dyshojnė e stė pėrfillin
por edhe dyshimet drejt ti gjykosh
Nė mundsh tė rrish nė pritje, nga pritja pa u lodhur,
e, kur turrejnė, urrejtje mos tushqesh,
madje, ndaj shpifjeve tė rrish pa folur,
me thjeshtėsi, me to pa rėnė ndesh
Nė mundsh tmendosh, por jo gjer nė shkatrrim,
tė ėndėrrosh, por jo si rob ėndėrrimesh,
dhe ti trajtosh njėlloj e pa dallim
ngadhnjim e shpartallim burim mashtrimesh
Nė durofsh dot thėniet e tua tė drejta
nė kurthe pėr trutharėt, kopuket qė ti kthejnė,
ti shohėsh tė thyera gjėrat mė tė shtrenjta
e prapė ti ndėrtosh me vegla qė nuk vlejnė
Nė mundsh fitoret qė ke korrur ti flijosh
si nė kumar, nė njė tė vetme lojė,
tė rrezikosh, tė humbasėsh e prapė tia fillosh,
dhe humbjen kurrė tė mos e zesh nė gojė
Nė i detyrofsh dot muskul, nerv e puls e zemėr
tė tė shėrbejnė edhe kur gjithēka duket e kotė,
e tė qėndrosh kur ske asgjė mė veē vullnetit,
qė vetėm fjalėn Qėndro! gjithmonė tė thonė
Nė mundsh tė flasėsh me maskarenj, por nderin tėnd ta ruash
e tecėsh pėrkrah mbretit pa krenari qė tė verbon
Nėse armiku apo miku stė bėjnė dot tė vuash,
dhe gjithkend e ēmon, por veē sa meriton
Nė mundsh ti mbushėsh ti minutat aq tė renda
me vepra qė peshojnė
dije dhe mos kij asnjė dyshim,
se jotja do tė jetė Bota, me ēka brenda,
dhe burre (grua) do tė jesh, o biri im (vajza ime) lool!
Robert Shvarc
Kjo me te vertete eshte e bukur, s0ni.Postuar mė parė nga s0ni
Vetem do thoja diēka, qe ti e ke harruar. Autori eshte: Rudyard Kipling.
Le Desespoir est assis sur un banc
Jacques Prevert
Dans un square sur un banc
Il y a un homme qui vous appelle quand on passe
Il a des binocles un vieux costume gris
Il fume un petit ninas il est assis
Et il vous appelle quand on passe
Ou simplement il vous fait signe
Il ne faut pas le regarder
Il ne faut pas l'écouter
Il faut passer
Faire comme si on ne le voyait pas
Comme si on ne l'entendait pas
Il faut passer et presser le pas
Si vous le regardez
Si vous l'écoutez
Il vous fait signe et rien personne
Ne peut vous empźcher d'aller vous asseoir prčs de lui
Alors il vous regarde et sourit
Et vous souffrez atrocement
Et l'homme continue de sourire
Et vous souriez du mźme sourire
Exactement
Plus vous souriez plus vous souffrez
Atrocement
Plus vous souffrez plus vous souriez
Irrémédiablement
Et vous restez lą
Assis figé
Souriant sur le banc
Des enfants jouent tout prčs de vous
Des passants passent
Tranquillement
Des oiseaux s'envolent
Quittant un arbre
Pour un autre
Et vous restez lą
Sur le banc
Et vous savez vous savez
Que jamais plus vous ne jouerez
Comme ces enfants
Vous savez que jamais plus vous ne passerez
Tranquillement
Comme ces passants
Que jamais plus vous ne vous envolerez
Quittant un arbre pour un autre
Comme ces oiseaux.
Xeni kete poem e kam lexuar ketu ne forum per here te pare, dhe nuk doja te shfletoja 100 faqe per ta gjetur lol prandaj e solla ketu sepse eshte poema me me kuptim qe kam lexuar deri tani.Postuar mė parė nga [xeni]
Flm per autorin se as ate se dija :)
Distilled
you think that you have walked the perimeter of truth and you know its edges and depth?
you think you have words to describe it from galaxy to core, and those in one language?
that without even knowing the dimensions truth encompasses, surely more than four,
you can measure it with just one philosophy book theory creed language mind?
you think something can't be absolute because it changes with contact and time?
all this could be forgiven because you are not so important, nor I, but
when you also think your arrogance is justified necessary right
and that it even has something to do with love, then
that practice of love enslaves the world
what if you have never met truth to call it by its true name?
would that mean you should be done with measuring
and that your fingers should let go the chalk?
then where would you go to for answers?
and what would you first have to grieve?
what would you next have to question?
then who would you have to need?
who would you forgive first?
what would you be worth
to anyone?
in the silence now
where once was
fearlessness
what you
hear is
truth
By Rhonda Bogus
Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
We didn't land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on us.
Krijoni Kontakt