30 Ocak 2013 Çarşamba
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28 Ocak 2013 Pazartesi
26 Ocak 2013 Cumartesi
25 Ocak 2013 Cuma
A Girl
The tree has entered my hands,
the sap has ascended my arms,
the tree has grown in my breast - downward,
the branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are, moss you are,
you are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
and all this is folly to the world.
Ezra Pound
the sap has ascended my arms,
the tree has grown in my breast - downward,
the branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are, moss you are,
you are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
and all this is folly to the world.
Ezra Pound
Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune
without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
- Emily Dickinson -
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune
without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
- Emily Dickinson -
23 Ocak 2013 Çarşamba
Anthology Of The Day - Contemporary Progressive Breath
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