Expectations
Because she did what was always expected of her
she was well-received by everyone. No doubt.
But then a great flame in her died at a certain point.
She was known as a marvel, a great success early on,
until marrying a man that could stifle bonfires with his words.
In retrospect I regret never declaring my own feelings.
I loved the pilgrim soul in this girl.
I loved the pilgrim soul in this girl.
In retrospect I regret never declaring my own feelings.
Until marrying a man that could stifle bonfires with his words
she was known as a marvel, a great success early on.
But then a great flame in her died at a certain point.
She was well-received by everyone. No doubt
because she did what was always expected of her.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2015 --
2 comments:
Congratulations,you made me cry!Not with or because of your poem,though.I cannot recount the number of times my friend in London has either dedicated to me W.YEATS poem "WHEN YOU ARE OLD"or called me "pilgrim soul". So many times that whenever I come across these 2 words, I am reminded of Him: 1.94 gingerhead antique-collector according to him, junk-collector according to me,trump according to my mum...His house is full of Greece;only last week I send him food:olives,sardines and baklava.Yet in all those years we know each other,he has yet to visit me or my country.The summer is too hot for Him;the winter is too busy for me. That's why NEVER procrastinate to go somewhere you get invited,think of all the lost chances!!There would be a day when it's too late...And the best time for Italy and Greece is NOW:cherries,strawberries,tomatoes,apricots,cucumber ALL FRESH. DON'T DELETE THE POEM!
Du musst das Leben nicht verstehen,
dann wird es werden wie ein Fest.
R.M. RILKE
as her hair
blew
there before my
eyes
as if suddenly I'd woken
for the first time
I saw
- and observed -
that lovely
young
girl
I was taken
by the harmony
of her movements
the lissomness
of her limbs
the fascination
of her gaze
the gentle rotundity
of her breasts
and more by all the charm
effused
by that
elegant
vernal
creature
and I straightaway reflected
- and "philosophised" -
my mind turned
to that innocent
who may at times
- I'm sure of it -
suffer
in torment
know unhappiness
in imagining that
the tender
the ethereal
the
little creature
has a mind
and soul
and his heart may bleed
despair
in attributing
even
a grain of intelligence
to that wholly
empty
little
head
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