poetry-quotes

Poetry keeps my heart neat, even when incomplete, I find peace.

The day arrived,when myriad teary rivers flow and the muted wind faintly died in his tears__n altar for the beloved one's departure,for sister-hood is no more,for her to adore!while pangs the beating world in a lamenting voice;their remembering loss of the 'one' they embrace most and when the crepuscule came like a phantom,the mournful,gathered birds swiftly flew in gloom.

Since nothing is absolute There is no absolute silence, Only an appearance Of temporary peace.

Does not heed to the darkWith its shimmering light,Moon quietly bathes the ocean

...O if we but knew what to do When we delve or hew_ Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender,

I __m shaggy as rivers, forests and mountains My eyes see the universe natural and super My mind is of many cuts Non-identical I have fought demons Half-horse, half alligator I __m victorious, I bled

with each measured step,we knowthis earth is only as solidas we are.

...Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve:After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc únselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene.

There is a tender breeze Wafting around hereFeel it from your Soul You will see Magic over hereDid I just now hear a beautiful symphony over here ?Or is it just your soothing words murmuring in my ear?Is it the cute mynah bird on my shoulder?Or is it your soft head nestling that I feel so tender? There is a tender breeze Wafting around hereFeel it from your SoulYou will see Magic over here...Did I just now hear the nightingale sing around here?Or is it the breeze whispering softly to the trees near?Is that you giggling away to glory? Or is that just the flowers mingling with the bees and telling their story?There is a tender breeze Wafting around hereFeel it from your SoulYou will see Magic over here..

What we call life is only talk of nature.

Poetry, like jazz, is one of those dazzling diamonds of creative industry that help human beings make sense out of the comedies and tragedies that contextualize our lives.

They say that history is going on somewhere.They say it won't stop. I have heldOne picture still for a long time and waited.

Creators of history always play with our impotence and our ignorance.

History will be erased in the universal purgatory.

Serious affairs and history are carefully laid snares for the uninformed.

For a game, you don__ need a teacher.

Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.

It__ not easy to write a poem about a poem.