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Monday, August 20, 2018
G.B.Shaw, quotes
The reasonable man adapts himself to the
world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to
himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW, Maxims for
Revolutionists
Those who do not know how to live must make a merit of
dying.
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW, Heartbreak House
Dr.F. quoting Dr.F.
the more you deny something,
the harder it will bite you.
to take a torch into the night,
doesn't take the night away.
whichever seed we plant,
it will grow or not grow,
it does not need our hope-
and we cannot control the weather.
each person is a process,
so is everything on earth,
even nothing.
the harder it will bite you.
to take a torch into the night,
doesn't take the night away.
whichever seed we plant,
it will grow or not grow,
it does not need our hope-
and we cannot control the weather.
each person is a process,
so is everything on earth,
even nothing.
Saturday, August 18, 2018
flight~sssss
what sticks my feet to the ground,
is it all the unsolved tears,
all the joy glued to moments,
is it the scent of dead mice
rotting in the kitchen
or the sweetly odour of leaves,
one on the other, autumn came,
is it the memory of dying?
maybe i need not to fly,
there is nothing much
but reflection caught in
a mirror.
here or there, what can it be?
maybe to go for a shovel
and dig another pit for
hope which is futile now,
this is not a season for spring
but for fools who feel the
winds come, they wait for
a kiss, their tears will be rain
and o, how they want to be green.
but the evening sun sinking
embraces all in gold and red,
and there are silent nights
and lonely travels ahead
is it all the unsolved tears,
all the joy glued to moments,
is it the scent of dead mice
rotting in the kitchen
or the sweetly odour of leaves,
one on the other, autumn came,
is it the memory of dying?
maybe i need not to fly,
there is nothing much
but reflection caught in
a mirror.
here or there, what can it be?
maybe to go for a shovel
and dig another pit for
hope which is futile now,
this is not a season for spring
but for fools who feel the
winds come, they wait for
a kiss, their tears will be rain
and o, how they want to be green.
but the evening sun sinking
embraces all in gold and red,
and there are silent nights
and lonely travels ahead
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