All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.(Jorge Luis Borge)
Saturday, October 2, 2010
What earth is this
so in want of you
they rise up on high
to seek you in heaven?
Look at them staring
at you
right before their eyes,
unseeing, unseeing, blind.
. . .
I was patient,
but can the heart
be patient of
its heart?
My spirit and yours
blend together
whether we are near one another
or far away.
I am you,
you,
my being,
end of my desire,
The most intimate of secret thoughts
enveloped
and fixed along the horizon
in folds of light.
How? The "how" is known
along the outside,
while the interior of beyond
to and for the heart of being.
Creatures perish
in the darkened
blind of quest,
knowing intimations.
Guessing and dreaming
they pursue the real,
faces turned toward the sky
whispering secrets to the heavens.
While the lord remains among them
in every turn of time
abiding in their every condition
every instant.
Never without him, they,
not for the blink of an eye --
if only they knew!
nor he for a moment without them.
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