Personal Poetry

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KURILA
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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby KURILA » 2009-07-27, 12:31

E
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hashi
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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby hashi » 2009-07-27, 12:43

KURILA wrote:HI, are you able to help me with analyzing a poetry a poem(one)/some poetry(multiple). I will take my first years last exam in September, so if you can help me I'll be very happy, bye and take care.


:D . If theres any questions, ask. :)
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Sono ancora qui (a volte), ma probabilmente non ti voglio parlare.

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby KURILA » 2009-08-20, 10:04

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby NulNuk » 2009-08-24, 2:03

this one is in Hebrew, a language I usually don`t use when I write, but I think its actually one of my best.

צף בין הגלים./ א.נ טרני.

כי זה מי שאני,
לא ממש אכפת,
לא מספיק מרגיש,
נותן להכל לזרום, וצף בין הגלים.

יותר מידי רגיש,
יותר מידי ביפנים,
יותר מידי חזק,
עטיפה של שחקנים.

כי זה מי שאני,
לא ממש אכפת,
לא מספיק מרגיש,
נותן להכל לזרום, וצף בין הגלים.

ממרחק בטוח,
בואה לי בחיים,
אם שמץ של תקווה,
מוסתר עמוק ביפנים.

מוחק לי זיכרונות,
במחק של ורדים,
שותק לעולמים,
נותן להכל לזרום, וצף בין הגלים.

translation will come later.... :0{
Every thing I write, wrote, or will write, its in my own opinion, for I have no other.
Release me from the duty of being polite and remind you, "I made use of my own brain".

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Aineko » 2010-01-03, 21:38

Hi everyone, this is my first post on Unilang :). I love this topic! So many beautiful poems in so many languages...
I am a great poetry lover, I was 'writing' (and publishing in local kids magazines :) ) poems before I was actually able to write them as quickly as they were forming in my brain - dictated them to my mom when I was 4 or 5 (I wasn't that good once I grew up :D). I've picked up my first words in Russian and Spanish from some bilingual books of Yesenin's and Lorca's poetry.
I stopped writing when I went to Uni and haven't written anything for years...Then last year poems started coming back to me, but, interestingly, only in English - I can't write in Serbian anymore.
For me, poetry shows the most sophisticated beauty of the language and reading it in the original language is just...well I don't know the word to describe it (in any language:) ).

Here are few of my poems:

TRAIN


In this train:

Women

And

Men and

Their bags

And their lives,

Like in the gut of a giant worm
Eating its way through the apple of the night.


BOMBING

Explosions like distant thunder

And windows trembling from time to time

Are rushing you
While you’re trying to make

A birthday cake for your child,

Trying to finish in the break between
The two power cuts,
Before they use those damn blackout bombs again…


THREE PICTURES IN COLORS AND WORDS

(synesthetic fragments)

I
Red is shaping A’s and M’s,
Beautiful theorems sleeping in their own hands,
As airports are sleeping in the hearts of their own noise…

II
I was staring into U,
Both covered in Blue.
I – creepy voyeur of gentle curves,
Staring through…

III
Beauty could mean that something went wrong:
Long
Rows of Black Ls,
Stories to hear, stories to tell,
Before it gets too dark, too late…


DEATH II

When the death comes,
Resembling solitude,
Final defeat of a positive attitude
You recommend as a good choice,
Will you accept?
Will you regret
Too many things or only a few?
Will you be perfectly calm
and content
that you are going back
to the pool,
to be recycled,
reused – all your thoughts,
all your joys,
all your good choices and all turmoils –
all broken down to single atoms,
to make new moments for someone random.


SOLITUDE:

You look in a book
And there’s no one there.
You look in your inbox
And there’s no one there.
You look around the room
And there’s no one there.
You look through the window
And there’s no one there.
You look in the TV
And there’s no one there.
You look in yourself
And there’s no one there.

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby gyrus » 2010-01-04, 18:41

[center]You exit the house, close the door behind you, lock it
walk down the garden path
out the gate
The moon looks down knowingly on you on this country's starry night

You walk through the streets
No-one around now
Sleepy town full of sleepy people
Except for you

Further on you press
The twinkling lights, smiling faces and warmth
slink into the darkness behind you
But you don't see

Nearer now, you push through a patch of heather
and reach the cliff edge
There's the moon again, caressing the water with light
You sigh, and bid the world goodbye

You jump
and fall
and crash

Tomorrow morning they find a dog barking in an empty cottage
And then, lying beside the calm, peaceful sea water
they find you[/center]
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Emandir
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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Emandir » 2010-02-17, 11:15

Aineko, I love your poems, really!
_______________

    De ton carcan
    tisse la croix d'or
    des condamnés à vie.
    Tu peux
    d'un seul clin d'œil
    et tu le sais
    écraser la montagne
    assécher l'Amazone
    émécher les étoiles.
    Du poète ennuyeux tu peux
    changer la vie sans intérêt
    en un cortège remarquable.
    Tu peux accorder la fin
    au monde de sa faim,
    annihiler la barbarie
    aux racines de sa sottise
    ou transformer les dieux jaloux
    en de bienveillants Aratar.
    De cette prison
    dont toi seul détient le verrou
    cadenassé
    tu peux sans même un geste
    arrêter les orbes célestes,
    enfurioser le flot des mers,
    tarir les monts d'Héphaïstos
    et jusqu'à caresser
    le doux visage de l'éphèbe
    se tenant à l'arrière du train
    du temps – ou est-ce à son avant ?
    pourvu que tu le veuilles.
    Car,
    comme prophétisa Guillaume
    en sa cité ensanglantée de nuit
    si rien n'est vrai –
    tout est permis
    et plus encore à celui qui veut faire.
    Accepte donc ta destinée
    ou quel que soit le nom
    que tu donnes à la ligne
    qui de ta dégénération
    galope vers ton inconnu –
    cesse de renier ce pour quoi tu te sens,
    accorde au faiseur qui sommeille en toi
    la liberté qui n'est jamais
    que ce qu'il demande
    et bien peu pour toi
    tu n'en perdras rien
    et même sans doute y gagneras-tu
    sinon en richesse ou prestige
    à tout le moins en vérité.
    Tu pourras,
    si tu le débâillonnes,
    saisir la vie en ce qu'elle est –
    un magma malléable à l'envi
    où l'océan peut se dresser
    tandis que le mont s'avachit,
    le lion lécher la main de pâtre
    et la brebis dormir contre le flanc du loup –
    où les hommes transpirent l'amour,
    la bonté, l'honnêteté, la charité –
    les nuages sont des solides
    et la rivière un jet de gaz –
    le Cosmos n'est qu'un vaste champ de quiétude
    où Dieu, s'approchant d'un étang,
    y mire le doux visage
    de Siddhārta Śākyamuni !

    Les Monologues de l'âme, 6 ; 2006


    ***

    From your collar shackle
    weave the golden cross
    for the convicted to life.
    You can
    with a mere wink
    and you know it
    crush the mountain
    drain the Amazon
    wick off the stars.
    The tedious poet you can
    change his uninteresting life
    into a noteworthy procession.
    You can grant the world
    the end of its hunger
    annihilate barbarity
    at the roots of its silliness
    or turn the jealous gods
    into benevolent Aratar.
    From this jail
    of which you alone keep the bolt
    locked up
    you can without even a move
    stop the celestial orbs,
    infuriate the ocean waves,
    dry up Hephaestus mounts
    and even stroke
    the sweet face of the Adonis
    standing at the rear end of the train
    of time – or is it its front end?
    as long as you want it.
    For,
    like William has prophesied
    in his city blood-drench by night
    if nothing’s real –
    everything’s allowed
    and even more to whom wants to do.
    Accept your destiny
    or whatever the name
    you’re giving to the line
    that from you generation
    gallops towards the unknown –
    stop renouncing what you’re feeling for,
    grant to the maker dormant inside you
    the freedom which is never
    but what he’s asking for
    and very little for you
    you won’t lose anything
    and even probably will you gain
    if not in wealth or prestige
    at the very least in truth.
    You’ll be able
    if you unmuzzle him
    to seize life in what it is –
    a magma malleable at will
    where the ocean can stand up
    while the mountain collapses,
    the lion lick the shepherd’s hand
    and the ewe sleep on the wolf’s flank –
    where men are perspiring love,
    goodness, honesty, charity –
    the clouds are solid
    and the river a spurt of gas –
    Cosmos is but a vast field of quietude
    where God, getting near to a pond,
    reflects in it the sweet visage
    of Siddhārta Śākyamuni!


    The Soul Soliloquies, 6; 2006
Language is the best way men have found to misunderstand each other. Lycodoxos

@Emandir

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Eoghan » 2010-06-08, 23:32

The Gulf, 60 years after BP.

Oh woe,
would I have known this in 1950
the radiocarbon year the present was BP
That 60 years later
my boundless veins would be
full of black gold
turned poison
flowing freely
borne hither and thither
by an unforgiving tide
that would be
killing guilty and innocent alike
much like the Angel of Death in Egypt
while the greedy continue to
gulf down money
who would never leak from their
bottomless stomachs

Gaza

The crescent moon danced above us
as I proposed
One knee to the ground
Eyes open and my soul aloft
brandished like a soldier’s sword
Singing bird
Come sail with me upon the Mare Liberum
take my hand and fear not,
pirates left these waters long ago
and as I said this
you turned around
silent as the first night
pointing to the star
attacking our galley
and wept
blood upon the captivated heart
lost behind walls of ancient conflicts
and passages from the Torah

Confused words

I be silent
oh elven maid
for your beauty stuns me
and all things I could
very well be saying
sounds old, worn
like clichés
and I blame you Shakespeare
for turning my words
into stones when
once they possessed
the ability to fly

I be silent
oh elven bride
never to leave the
back of the mare of Macha
lest I be turned to dust
and you
laughing scornfully
at the sun

Leave me
Human flaws
you
turn me into
a Quasimodo
and the Parisian Lady of Ours
and the belles of
a French city
are all too far away from the
ear-shuttering sound
of a furious North Sea
to revert the Hulk-like
transformation
my heart has
initiated

Illiterate fool

He looked at me
his weathered face towards
the setting sun
and asked me
an ancient, deep voice
from beyond the mountains
Child, can you read?

Of course I can read
My answer sure of itself
and ignorant about
the seriousness of my claim
as the old man turned around
this time eyeing me

Oh, that’s all nice and well then, but child, can you read?
My answer now annoyed
You’ve seen me write old man,
of course I can read!

He smiled this time
turned away and said
Child, lines on a paper
have no importance
once you’re lost in a desert
or somewhere in the deep woods
that used to cover this place -

If you cannot read the land
you’re but an illiterate fool;
Now child, can you read?

I answered
somewhat ashamed this time around

Old man, the land’s
been burnt by those
we are forced to believe matter
and no-one
knows how to read the messages
our mother leaves us -
but at least I know that WERTY
follows Q

Green

Open up your heart
a bolted door on the ocean floor
covered in coral
there’s no moral
in walking through a closed door
when our hands and minds are miles apart
You and I left there
left there
left there
You and I left that place
and to your left a
fallen king
and sing, blackest of birds, sing
Your wings too small
to let me fly
but I’m a bumblebee
and three years from now
it’ll all be lost
in memories
boxed and stored away
two cups of tea, scones and someone
suspicious of your
true colours -
they’re green like the waves
eating the sand covered beaches
attacking the Atlantic

The Queen at the Gallows

In a royal chamber somewhere
overlooking the Victoria Memorial
the 9 o' clock news were on;
A sad Londoner addressing an audience
outwith the borders of his posh parlance
of Good evening, and disasters
fought abroad and suffered on
the home turf
Sometimes the other way around

In a white guarded palace the daughter of
Mrs Bowes-Lyon frowned
clearly not amused by that which did not
take place in the House of Commons
while the country said no
and a passive
hang me oh hang me
a parliament she would be appointing
and never have the power to
control
Clearly having a number of trustworthy
housekeepers, maids and garderners
was better
That and her corgies
There would be no dun, dull man from the north
no broken noses from Eton
and the nick-named currently most important man
in the country - why the, last time she opened an atlas there had been four? -
would not have so bloody much to say

She sighed and reminded herself of that
1940's broadcast;
"We know, every one of us, that in the end all will be well"
Damn right it will, and mind your language
you're a lady after all
and not some prancing, foul-mouthed queen


Oh well,
Mrs Windsor had been through worse
a horsefly, a silverbacked Scot and an upperclass twat
were the least of her concerns
and if everything went well
they'd be treated to one of her fondest Dresden memories
soon enough
and then come December
and whatever buffoon
elected
the Parliament would be opened
and the tiresome Lords,
pray, they would be seated.

Rémy LeBeau

Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Rémy LeBeau » 2010-07-18, 22:45

This is a short poem about Punjab, in Punjabi. It is anti-religion, anti-India, and anti-Pakistan. The English translation probably leaves a lot to be desired.

ਇਹਨਾ ਸਾਰਾ ਖ਼ੂਨ ਡੋਲ ਕੇ 
ਕੱਖ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਮਿਲਿਆ

ਧਰਮਾਂ ਵਾਲੇ ਖ਼ੂਨ ਪੀ ਪੀ ਰੱਜਦੇ
ਕਿੰਨੇ ਸਾਰੇ ਸਾਡੇ ਮਰ ਗਏ
ਸਭ ਕੁਝ ਸਾਥੋਂ ਖੋ ਗਿਆ

ਸਿਆਸਤ ਵਾਲੇ ਫ਼ੇਰ ਵੀ ਹੋਰ ਮੰਗਦੇ

ihnā sārā ḳhūn ḍol ke, 
kakkh nahīṅ sī miliā

dharmāṅ vāle ḳhūn pī pī rajjde 
kinne sāre sāḍe mar gae
, sabh kujh sāthoṅ kho giā

siāsat vāle fer vī hor maṅgde 

After all that bloodshed, we've gained nothing
But the preachers fill their appetites with our blood
How many of ours have been killed? We have lost everything
But the politicians still want more

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby ILuvEire » 2010-07-19, 3:46

Rémy LeBeau wrote:This is a short poem about Punjab, in Punjabi. It is anti-religion, anti-India, and anti-Pakistan. The English translation probably leaves a lot to be desired.

ਇਹਨਾ ਸਾਰਾ ਖ਼ੂਨ ਡੋਲ ਕੇ 
ਕੱਖ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਮਿਲਿਆ

ਧਰਮਾਂ ਵਾਲੇ ਖ਼ੂਨ ਪੀ ਪੀ ਰੱਜਦੇ
ਕਿੰਨੇ ਸਾਰੇ ਸਾਡੇ ਮਰ ਗਏ
ਸਭ ਕੁਝ ਸਾਥੋਂ ਖੋ ਗਿਆ

ਸਿਆਸਤ ਵਾਲੇ ਫ਼ੇਰ ਵੀ ਹੋਰ ਮੰਗਦੇ

ihnā sārā ḳhūn ḍol ke, 
kakkh nahīṅ sī miliā

dharmāṅ vāle ḳhūn pī pī rajjde 
kinne sāre sāḍe mar gae
, sabh kujh sāthoṅ kho giā

siāsat vāle fer vī hor maṅgde 

After all that bloodshed, we've gained nothing
But the preachers fill their appetites with our blood
How many of ours have been killed? We have lost everything
But the politicians still want more

This is beautiful, Rémy. I mean, it's short, but it's sort of one of those things where I feel like every word holds a lot of power. It sounds a lot better in Punjabi, I just wish I could understand the original, I hate poetry in translation. It's like tasting food with your feet.
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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Quetzalcoatl » 2010-12-28, 23:45

sehnsucht / windhauch (written in 2006)

unbarmherzig, schwül und trocken
sticht sie eiskalt in mich ein
ohne gnade wie die liebe
grillt mich jetzt der sonnenschein

jene wölkchen treiben weiter
letzte hoffnung ist schon fort
auch das herz schlägt nicht mehr heiter
sondern längst am fernen ort

doch dann kommt die kühle brise
nur ein windhauch und nicht mehr
und das herz blüht wie die wiese
denn es ist jetzt nicht mehr schwer

bald erinnert sich die sehnsucht
unbekümmert, frisch und frei
waren doch die tage mit ihr
damit ist es nun vorbei

auch das lüftchen ist vergangen
dennoch hat es mich beseelt
wieder drückt die schwere hitze
eine wahrheit bleibt - sie fehlt


---

Maybe I'll add a translation another day, it's really hard to translate this...

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby ILuvEire » 2010-12-29, 5:04

Das ist ja der Hammer :] Vielleicht verstehe ich alles nicht, aber ich kann das Wesentliche davon. Und mir klingts schön :)
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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Quetzalcoatl » 2010-12-29, 16:19

Thank you! ;)

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Eoghan » 2011-01-21, 1:50

Is cuma leam trom-laighean neo lainnir


Is cuma leam ach d’aodann
Chunnaic mi na reultan air do shuilean dùinte -
tha thu nad cadal fhathast


stad. cut. really? chuir a crìdhe r-post dhan stiùireadair

Ìomhair, honestly, mach às a seo
Bha bhampairean so last year.


I don’t care for nightmares or sparkles

I don’t care for anything but your face
I saw the stars in your closed eyes -
you’re still asleep

stop. cut. really? her heart is mailing the director

Edward, honestly, get the hell out of here
Vampires were so last year.

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Eoghan » 2011-01-21, 1:52

Èilidh


That night I saw the face that launched a thousand ships
on the left bank of the river Styx –
the old ones knew it as the sea between this world and Tìr nan Òg;
Standing there a faded banshee,
with her memories wiped away from her face,
no Deirdre of unmentionable sorrows,
her beauty didn’t seem as cursed
as the day Achilles, Cù Chulainn of the South, fell in mortal combat
on the blood stained walls of Troy

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Eoghan » 2011-01-21, 1:54

Stones

Do we believe in love, I asked
as we slipped under the covers
drawing snowflakes from the storm clouds above us
meh, do we have to you answered
you keep me warm through the night and
I’ll be your source of heat
and we’ll talk about love in the morning
2.30 am.
But, do we though?
Sweaty palms on my back and yes we do
but don’t make it so complicated
goddamnit shut yer face the now and don’t
just don’t
don’t ask
Stone cold face
We’re stones on a beach of time
oval shapes of eternity
evolved beyond recognition
4.50 am.
So, no love then.
Right. This was nothing.
Flesh. Lust.
But no love
I need a shower, I need you far away from my skin
I need you out of my hair
6.10 am.
You’re asleep again.
8.21 am.
Wide awake, wait don’t go.
Maybe this was it
but I don’t want it to, I don’t want it to be the it
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
10.11 am.
Ego sum
tu est
Oh typical
can’t even say we won’t be in Latin

10.30 am.
I really need to go, but your breath is still there
you really need to go now
but I haven’t tasted air since we were one
and our steps contradict each other
11.11 am.
Make a wish.
Perhaps it was never meant to be.

A faint whisper.
- ahluvye
-wha?
- donnaemakmesaetagain
silence
I wait
ahsaidaluvye
- oh
- anwhitabootyou? dyeluvme?
- aye.
7.21 pm.
We’re skipping stones together
if you sink I’ll sink with you
11.54 pm.

and that night we ate the stars

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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Eoghan » 2011-01-21, 1:56

Under the Pole Star

Oh, sweet is the pleasure
they said
when I abandoned the Isles

I promised myself
somewhere around midnight
something and something else

Well, I’m still here
in a dream about you
I lied to myself tonight -
Lewis of the past will never return to me


Fo ‘n Reul-Iùil

Nach boidheachd an spòrs
a thuirt iad
nuair a trèig mi na h-eileanan

Thug mi gealladh dhomh fhèin
timcheall air an meadhan oìdhche
rudeigin is rudeigin eile

Uil, tha mi ann fhathast
air bruadar ort
Thug mi car asamsa a-nochd -
cha till Leòdhais ò ‘n t-am a dh’fhalbh dhomh idir

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Emandir
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Re: Personal Poetry

Postby Emandir » 2012-04-07, 16:06

OK, let's revive this post after 15 months...
Note: I couldn't make the English last line an octosyllable. :hmm:
_____________________________________________________

Des ombres l'heure est descendue
Comme le voile des oublis
Où toutes les voix entendues
Ces corps et tous ces noms appris
Ne sont plus dans le souvenir
Qu'un album à entretenir

Tout s'éfface dans la mémoire
Des formes, des mots, de l'action
Seule me reste l'illusoire
Et la mouvante reflexion
Dans le miroir du repentir
De visages dans un soupir


-----

Of shadows the time has come down
Like the veil of forgotten things
When every voice that we once heard
Those bodies and all those names learnt
Are no more in recollection
Than an album to look after

Everything fades in memory
Of shapes, of words, of the action
Only remains illusory
And shimmering the reflection
In the mirror of repentance
Of faces in a sigh
Language is the best way men have found to misunderstand each other. Lycodoxos

@Emandir

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MillMaths
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Re: Personal poetry

Postby MillMaths » 2013-04-24, 23:36

Tiger

The roar of a tiger, caged up too long.
Unstoppable rage burst forth, rage too strong
For the beast, unused to freedom, to tame –
And the mould has been formed. Recurring shame,
Repeating cycles, lessons never learned,
Constant drifting, opportunities spurned …
Each road out of square one is a round track;
The stone moved up the hill always rolls back.
Always the same acts being seen and heard
In the theatre managed by the absurd –
And selfhood is eventually destroyed
In this meaningless, existential void.
It is not a foot that has been put wrong.
It is the tiger – caged up for too long.

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MillMaths
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Re: Personal poetry

Postby MillMaths » 2013-04-30, 12:54

Enlightenment

You use your free will to make free choices,
Listening to your own inner voices,
But nothing is going right all along –
The choices you’ve been making must be wrong –
Until one day, out of the dark, you find
This higher power screwing up your mind.
This, then, is the moment you’re enlightened.
Your sense of injustice may be heightened
By the lightbulb installed inside your head,
But on second thoughts, reflecting instead
On brighter prospects suddenly in view,
You say to the higher power: “Thank you!”
Don’t give free will free rein to run your course.
Be wired to a higher power source.


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