4 May, 2010 22:57

Breeze whistles like the whispers of the shore.

Every sea shell carries with it tales of the ocean.

An aakar chases notes, temperamental as leaves catching the lure of an ebbing breeze. Violin Strings sail on notes like the relenting drift of sea gulls. Sighs of an abandoned flute soothes, like clouds that laminate the sky. Fingers strike at the thigh. Bells ring at her feet. She writes poems to an angry god.

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Show me how you offer to your people the stories and the songs you want our children’s children to remember, and I will show you how I struggle, not to change the world, but to love it.


2 thoughts on “4 May, 2010 22:57

  1. As Rumi, in his poetic verse says: I died from mineral and plant became; Died from the plant and took a sentient frame; Died from the beast, and donned a human dress; When by my dying did I e’er grow less; Another time from manhood I must die to soar with angel-pinions through the sky. “ Midst Angels also I must lose my place Since “ Everything shall perish save His face.” Let me be Naught! The harp-strings tell me plain That unto Him do we return again! (Jalal al-Din Rumi, “ Mathnawi”,

  2. Dearest Natasha,

    By yourself (finally?). Do not hide, we are all here for you.

    You are in my prayers everyday, special child. You have a home in St Petes, come whenever you want to take time to write. I will see to your scripts.


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