the Garden of the Prophet

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. 
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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

the Garden of the Prophet

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. 
imageedit_5_9436697673
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

an Age Difference

The severance of a nerve

The leftover scarsimageedit_3_6632606200

Have I ‘arrived too late?’

Must ache be my fate?

There is a static to the air…while I put aware my cares.

A great sense of having visited a temple built without brick.

A presence of ‘having heart’ in the changing of colors that loom ahead.

Watching as the fields grow…and, wane.

I hear nothing from the sheltering woods…they do not complain.

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Passing the Time

I count the squirrels in the trees.

By doing so, I disavow pity.

I count the bricks in a wall.

By doing so, I am made ten feet tall.

I imagine, varying sun.

And, its spirituality will provide.

I tally the tasks in which the earth confides.1984 blog cover.jpg

 

My Pity Made of Cotton

x fall tilton

It is an old, familiar blanket.

One that has wrapped itself in the arms of many.

One that swaddled my fears.

And, has fed my hunger.

Still there are times in which it seems less dear.

Less near.

Pity I cannot provide my shelter…

Made of the finest soft cotton.

Indulge my blanket with fantasy’s of never letting go.

Pity I cannot provide my shelter solemn seeds in which to sow.