Bee

climbed and climbed Where is the peak, my Lord? I ploughed and ploughed, Where is the knowledge treasure, my Lord? I sailed and sailed, Where is the island of peace, my Lord? Almighty, bless my nation With vision and sweat resulting into happiness A.P.J.Abdul Kalam

This is a gathering of Lovers. In this gathering there is no high, no low, no smart, no ignorant, no special assembly, no grand discourse, no proper schooling required. There is no master, no disciple. This gathering is more like a drunken party, full of tricksters, fools, mad men and mad women. This is a gathering of Lovers Rumi

I worship the moon. Tell me of the soft glow of a candle light and the sweetness of my moon. Don't talk about sorrow, tell me of that treasure, hidden if it is to you, then just remain silent. Last night I lost my grip on reality and welcomed insanity. Love saw me and said, I showed up. Wipe you tears and be silent. I said, O Love I am frightened, but it's not you. Love said to me, there is nothing that is not me. be silent. I will whisper secrets in your ear just nod yes and be silent. A soul moon appeared in the path of my heart. How precious is this journey. I said, O Love what kind of moon is this? Love said to me, this is not for you to question. be silent. I said, O Love what kind of face is this, angelic, or human? Love said to me, this is beyond anything that you know. Be silent. I said, please reveal this to me I am dying in anticipation. Love said to me, that is where I want you: Always on the edge, be silent. You dwell in this hall of images and illusions, leave this...

A letter was written by Abraham Lincoln to the Headmaster of a school in which his son was studying. "He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just and are not true. But teach him if you can, the wonder of books.. but also give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun and flowers on a green hillside. In school, teach him it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat..... Teach to have faith in his own ideas, even if everyone tells him he is wrong. Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with the tough. Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon... Teach him to listen to all men; but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth, and take only the good that comes through. Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he is sad... Teach him there is no shame in tears. Teach him to scoff at cynics and to be beware of too much sweetness.. Teach him to sell hi...

The drought has stifled every feather of wind, The sun melted down on the earth, left behind An empty, exhausted, blistering sky, The buckets come up from the fountains all dry. More and more over woods fires, fires, Dance above savage, demoniac pyres. I follow my father through the bushes uphill, The fir-trees scrape me, withered up and evil, Together, we start the deer hunting quest, The hunting of hunger in the Carpathian forest. Thirst ruins me. The thin string of water Drip, drop, from the spout is sizzling on stone. My temple is throbbing. I walk on another Enormous and heavy, strange planet alone. We wait in a place where, from strings of calm waves, The streams still resound. When the sun will be set, when the moon will rise, round, One by one, in a line, up here, they will come to drink, the deer. I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he hushes me at once, Bemusing water, how clearly you glow! I`m tied by thirst to the soul meant to die At an hour forbidden by custom and by law. The va...

Look up at the snowing December, My love, through the windows, watch higher – And tell them to bring us some embers, To hear the cracking of fire. Push closer your chair and listen Wind`s rattle in chimney, the roar, The storm or my days -all the same – I wish I could learn their score. And tell them to bring us some tea Come closer, my darling, and sit Now read me some tales from the poles, Let it snow, let the snow be our crypt And all in the house is so sacred, And here with you is so warm – Look up at the snowing December, Don’t laugh…don`t cry…and read on. And tell them to bring us a lamp, It’s daylight, so dark and so cold – The fence has been buried by snow, And white frost has coated the bolt. A flood of snow everywhere Today I am not going home, Look up at the snowing December, Don’t cry…don`t laugh…and read on. George Bacovia

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two imposters just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your...

Well, son, I'll tell you:Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.It's had tacks in it,And splinters,And boards torn up,And places with no carpet on the floor—Bare.But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on,And reachin' landin's,And turnin' corners,And sometimes goin' in the darkWhere there ain't been no light.So, boy, don't you turn back.Don't you set down on the steps.'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.Don't you fall now—For I'se still goin', honey,I'se still climbin',And life for me ain't been no crystal stair. by Langston Hughes

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Robert frost

I know not the significance Or the meaning of my sadness... There's a fairy-tail from times past A lingering portion of my madness. The air is cool as light recedes And calmly flows the Rhine; The peak of a nearby mountain glows In the gloaming sun's shine. Above a chaste woman sits Radiant and quite unaware; With golden jewelry flashing She combs her golden hair. She strokes it with a glittering comb, As she toils a song's befalling. A mysterious song, an enchanting air With a melody enthralling. Her lay is heard by the boatmen near Who are seized with woe and pain And tho' there are dangerous rocks nearby To her visage and song they strain. So, the boat is lost and the boatmen, too Engulfed, I do imply By the beautiful face and enticing strain, The song of the Lorelei. Heinrich Heine

I taste a liquor never brewed From Tankards scooped in Pearl. Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol! Inebriate of air - am I And Debauchee of Dew. Reeling - thro endless summer days From inns of molten blue. When "Landlords" turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door - When butterflies - renounce their "drams" I shall but drink the more! Till seraphs swing their snowy hats And saints - to windows run To see the little Tippler Leaning against the - sun Emily Dickinson

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action--- Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. Rabindranath Tagore

…Questions abound, Answers linger… Desires procreate; Sensations habituate; Ideas percolate; Thoughts proliferate; Perceptions complicate.. Suggestions elevate; Targets suffocate; Designs facilitate; Machinations arbitrate; Achievements satiate. Answers abound, Questions linger… Impulses circulate; Emotions dilate; Divinity translates; Eternity sublimates; Infinity annihilates.. …Sans questions, Sans answers. Mayank Bisht( www.windsandchimes.com )

I don't suppose my heart was everwarm and redlike this before. I sense that in the worst moments of this black, death-feeding repast a thousand thousand well-springs of sunlight, stemming from certitude,well up in my heart. I sense, further, that in every nook and cranny of this salt barrenness of despair a thousand thousand joy forests, stemming from the soil, are suddenly springing. Oh, lost certitude, oh, sea-creature fleeing in the concentric, shivering, mirroring pools, I am the clear pool: mesmerized by love, search out a path for meamong the mirror pools. I don't thinkmy hand was everstrong and alivelike this, before. I sense that at the flow of blood-red tears in my eyesa duskless sun pours forth a song. I sense that in my every vein,in time with my every heart beat,the warning bell of a departing caravan tolls. She, bare, came one evening through the doorlike the soul of water. At her breast two fishIn her hand a mirror Her wet hair, moss fragrance, intertwined moss. ...

Then we met more often. I stood at one side of the hour, you at the other, like two handles of an amphora. Only the words flew between us, back and forth. You could almost see their swirling, and suddenly, I would lower a knee, and touch my elbow to the ground to look at the grass, bent by the falling of some word ,as though by the paw of a lion in flight. The words spun between us, back and forth, and the more I loved you, the more they continued, this whirl almost seen, the structure of matter, the beginnings of things. From the book "Bas-Relief with Heroes" english translation by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru. Nichita Stãnescu - Romanian Poet