A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter. And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times when we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wineskins. But there was no information, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.
WHEN, to the common rest that crowns our days, Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays His silver temples in their last repose; When, o’er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows, And blights the fairest; when our bitterest tears Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, We think on what they were, with many fears Lest Goodness die with them, and leave the coming years.
You can't make a plant grow by pulling at it You can't make water boil by putting a burning matchstick in it You can't climb a mountain by looking at it The only way through is the way through You can't cross over before building a bridge
If you lived here you'd be home now - Says the highway sign I know - if I lived here I'd be home now
But I don't live here. I could. But I don't want to live here. Not now at least. My home is far My journey long I'm not home now but consider this road as much my companion as the other travelers - Some my own Some unknown.
If I lived here I'd be home now. But I don't. Home is far This road is here And I roll on like the treads of tire. Tired.Tried.Again and Again.
..Da capo sine fine
And it is fine.
Note: Da capo sine fine is a term in music meaning "repeat from the beginning to end". Learn more here.
An explorer, an artist, an activist, a social entrepreneur, a poet and a writer looking for treasures beyond any measure. My favorite words are 'Love' ( which is the meaning of my name, as also my effort to be the meaning of my existence) and 'Serendipity' ( which keeps finding me around every nook and corner !). I like looking at moving clouds endlessly changing their shapes and shades, listening to chirping birds singing their songs, discovering new worlds in old book stores, taking photographs of the sky, the earth and everything in between. Love experimenting with random acts of creative kind(ness). Cherish reading and writing about the beauty and enigmas of nature, the human mind and myworldbeyondstars.