What happens in heaven?
Will I sit on a cloud?
Is walking or talking
Or jumping allowed?
Will I be on my own
Or with some of my friends?
Does it go on for ever
Or eventually end?
......
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
......
Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:
Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
- Basho
......
I.
I said---Then, dearest, since 'tis so,
Since now at length my fate I know,
Since nothing all my love avails,
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,
Since this was written and needs must be---
My whole heart rises up to bless
Your name in pride and thankfulness!
Take back the hope you gave,---I claim
......
While the long grain is softening
in the water, gurgling
over a low stove flame, before
the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced
for breakfast, before the birds,
my mother glides an ivory comb
through her hair, heavy
and black as calligrapher's ink.
She sits at the foot of the bed.
......
Since the elderly king greatly loved music, his court esteemed it, too;
As sun and moon smile on myriad colors, during the butterfly revue.
The king was well loved and jolly, with the queen, always by his side.
He ruled with caring. Like rainbow hued peaks, where indifference died.
His glorious reign had been lengthy, and the vast kingdom prospered;
Like the kingdom of regal, red lilies, blooming regularly as clockwork.
Fabled, flighty, fall days brought friends, on the spur of rare moment,
......
Rain is drizzling in slanting form,
Pelting my thatched roof gently.
Every globule of raindrop shines
With the power of water.
Outside, it’s cold, grey and hopefully dark,
The stars hiding behind blindfolded and
Piddling clouds, making love smoothly.
The cosmos, fatter, and at the same time, leaner,
Holds a confraternal festival of rain
That runs from seasons to ancestries.
......
Fingers dance on ivory roads,
a melody in midnight codes.
He plays what no one dares to say,
and makes the silence drift away.
A glass half full,a heart half gone-
he tells our stories,note by note,
then fades into the final song,
the one that keeps us all afloat.
#!/usr/bin/env python3
#if love is sharing the now, then
# -*- coding: utf-8 -*-
# magnetism is something else.
#spirituality is not religion or about region, and neither about french legion of honor.
def love_her():
rhythm = False
her_moves = {"dance": "none", "sex": "algorithm"}
......
From Chopin's diary, through my eyes
So calm, gentle and tender is the night
though there's no moon, stars or the faintest light
my heart wells never as before in such longing and sorrow
let my music tell my heartbreak-story though I know
love , the love of my life, will not once gain return
while my feelings within me so grievously burn
at this hour so bereft and solemn as I write my Nocturne
......