Too lazy to be ambitious, I let the world take care of itself. Ten days’ worth of rice in my bag; a bundle of twigs by the fireplace. Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment? Listening to the night rain on my roof, I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out! -Ryokan
Wake me from this revolting riddle
My island…tartan from the toil
Every moment in slumber…I am submerged on faraway soil
Outings of yesteryear, swirl and wane from folly’s foil
Though I stack cords of oak to guard against my enemies
I fear tomorrow it will topple and the pond shall boil
Had I not known Friendly Strangers when young.
My reduced everything would have remained under constraint of younger guns
Now, only another Castaway…
Friendly Stranger wake me with your beat…
a distant and different kind of drum
What if the whole world just held hands?
United as one
Those who opposed, fell off
Disintegrated into the sun
The only thing left of evil was ash
The only thing left on earth was people with passion
Heart for Mother Nature
Caring for their fellow human being
Common considerate behavior
Contribution towards humane higher plane of consciousness
We are all tempted by a grand design…
Something of an imaginary kind…
Incense so zealous…yet, not ours to find.
…
A pungent temptress.
An oak’s sweetness…
A nutmeg sheltered in bitterness.
After the hibernation, when frolic peppers the air.
It is there.
It is there.
Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.
Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave
and eats a bread it does not harvest.
Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.
Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
save when it walks in a funeral,
boasts not except among its ruins,
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid
between the sword and the block.
Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox,
whose philosopher is a juggler,
and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking
Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting,
and farewells him with hooting,
only to welcome another with trumpeting again.
Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years
and whose strongmen are yet in the cradle.
Pity the nation divided into fragments,
each fragment deeming itself a nation.
Gibran, the Garden of the Prophet
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I am Brangien [Brangaine] of Weisefort, Ireland, lady-in-waiting to my cousin Isolde, who became promised to King Marc of Cornwall. His nephew Tristan escorted us to England by ship. But Tristan and Isolde fell in love at sea. As ye may know, or will find out, they cite the philter they drank as the cause, over which I was supposed to keep vigil. I would like to share my perspective of how I have created good in the world through my herbs and observations. There is much to tell, including how I have adopted this odd language. In good time. My life is in God’s hands. –Inspired by the modern French translations of the Tristan and Isolde texts
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