Poems that Remind you of Eddie's lyrics
sabbath
Posts: 35
This poem by Pablo Neruda comes to mind..
" Right, comrade, it’s the hour of the garden
and the hour up in arms, each day
follows from flower or blood:
our time surrenders us to an obligation
to water the jasmines
or bleed to death in a dark street:
virtue or pain blows off
into frozen realms, into hissing embers,
and there never was a choice:
heaven’s roads,
once the by-ways of saints,
are jammed now with experts.
Already the horses have vanished.
Heroes hop around like toads,
mirrors live out emptinesses
because the party is happening somewhere else,
wherever we aren’t invited
and fights frame themselves in doorjambs.
That’s why this is the last call,
the tenth clear
ringing of my bell:
to the garden, comrade, to the pale lily,
to the apple tree, to the intransigent carnation,
to the fragrance of lemon blossoms,
and then to the ultimatums of war.
Ours is a lank country
and on the naked edge of her knife
our frail flag burns."
" Right, comrade, it’s the hour of the garden
and the hour up in arms, each day
follows from flower or blood:
our time surrenders us to an obligation
to water the jasmines
or bleed to death in a dark street:
virtue or pain blows off
into frozen realms, into hissing embers,
and there never was a choice:
heaven’s roads,
once the by-ways of saints,
are jammed now with experts.
Already the horses have vanished.
Heroes hop around like toads,
mirrors live out emptinesses
because the party is happening somewhere else,
wherever we aren’t invited
and fights frame themselves in doorjambs.
That’s why this is the last call,
the tenth clear
ringing of my bell:
to the garden, comrade, to the pale lily,
to the apple tree, to the intransigent carnation,
to the fragrance of lemon blossoms,
and then to the ultimatums of war.
Ours is a lank country
and on the naked edge of her knife
our frail flag burns."
fkjghldfkjh
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
If, After I Die
If, after I die, they should want to write my biography,
There's nothing simpler.
I've just two dates - of my birth, and of my death.
In between the one thing and the other all the days are
mine.
I am easy to describe.
I lived like mad.
I loved things without any sentimentality.
I never had a desire I could not fulfil, because
I never went blind.
Even hearing was to me never more than an
accompaniment of seeing.
I understood that things are real and all different from
each other;
I understood it with the eyes, never with thinking.
To understand it with thinking would be to find them
all equal.
One day I felt sleepy like a child.
I closed my eyes and slept.
And by the way, I was only Nature poet.
Hope you like it
-Nietzsche
EMPATHY