The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.

// Camus

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Through the laurel’s branches
I saw two dark doves.
One was the sun,
the other the moon.
Little neighbors, I called,
where is my tomb?
In my tail, said the sun.
In my throat, said the moon.
And I who was walking
with the earth at my waist,
saw two snowy eagles
and a naked girl.
The one was the other
and the girl was neither.
Little eagles, I called,
where is my tomb?
In my tail, said the sun.
In my throat, said the moon.
Through the laurel’s branches
I saw two naked doves.
The one was the other
and both of them were neither.

Qasida of the Dark Doves // Federico Garcia Lorca
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  • 1 month ago

transient, adj.

In school, the year was marker. Fifth grade. Senior year or high school. Sophomore year of college. Then after, the jobs were the marker. That office. This desk. But now that school is over and I’ve been working at the same place in the same office at the same desk for longer than I can truly believe, I realize: You have become the marker. This is your era. And it’s only if it goes on and on that I will have to look for others way to identify the time.

From The Lover’s Dictionary // David Levithan

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I dreamt…
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
where making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures…

Antonio Machado in “Last Night as I was Sleeping.”
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  • 6 months ago

New Moon (Jim Harrison)

Why does the new moon give anyone hope?

Nevertheless it does and always has for me

and likely does for that Mexican poet with no pesos,

maybe a couple of tortillas, chewing them while sitting

on a smooth rock beside a creek in the Sierra Madres

seeing the new moon tilted delicately away from Venus,

the faint silver light, the ever-so-small sliver

of white enamel rippling in the creek, the same moon,

he thinks, that soothed the Virgin in her great doubt

over the swollen belly beneath her breasts.

The fatherless son had two new moons in his forty days

in the wilderness, the second one telling him it was time

to become God and enter the beast of history.

This poet, though, ignores the sacraments of destiny

and only wants a poem to sing the liquid gift of night.

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