Always try to keep a patch of sky above your life.”― Marcel Proust
WHEN Love awakens there shall be a radiance
Like to the sun’s setting on a rainy day,
The breathed-in air bring roses to your cheeks,
Your eyes shall shine like stars in softened sky ;
The clouds that lowered their black bosoms of late
Shall fondle you against their crimson breasts
And the moon, majestic, will mount the heavens
Mated in beauty with the death of eve ;
All time distilled to a moment’s sweetness ;
Life, glimmering, a jewel in your grasp,
Your soul spreading its wings at the touch
Of hand on hand, of lips upon your lips.
“We are not trapped or locked up in these bones. No, no. We are free to change. And love changes us. And if we can love one another, we can break open the sky.” ~ Walter Mosley
Now you can go to sleep safely,
Now all the heavens are open:
Soul, whose longing oak dark walls
In star to star burns transparently,
And in the beauty of this temporary land
Your eternal fate must already be loved,
As your delight looks to
The throne of God.
The night, it is deserted
from the mountains to the sea.
But I, the one who rocks you,
I am not alone!
The sky, it is deserted
for the moon falls to the sea.
But I, the one who holds you,
I am not alone !
The world, it is deserted.
All flesh is sad you see.
But I, the one who hugs you,
I am not alone!
Pablo Neruda
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air –
and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography –
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
Halina Poswiatowska
I am gentle with you
as with bees
the sharp smell of flowers
I am kind to you
as to the bird’s tired wings
a swinging branch
as gold
I fall on your lids
with a smile
I chase away thoughts – stinging wasps
this night
has given you to me
the vast night
with my hair strewn in disorder over canvass
you are
clear like the moon
you shine
in my cold sky
I pray to you
what religion is this
where they worship the lips
of the curved god of dawns
ah religion
magnificent blasphemers
we are to one another
a closed four-cornered world
She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is in my hair
She has the color of my eye
She has the body of my hand
In my shade she is engulfed
As a stone against the sky
She will never close her eyes
And she does not let me sleep
And her dreams in the bright day
Make the suns evaporate
And me laugh cry and laugh
Speak when I have nothing to say
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that
concerns
them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle;
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships, with men
in
them,
What stranger miracles are there?
