The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.175
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights.
The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;180
Departed, have left no addresses...

From The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot.

I have know the harshest of days
I have dried up oceans of tears
i have dragged myself to freedom
Crying for the right moment
Screaming for liberty
Yet some people think i know nothing
What do they know
i have dealt with the hardest parts of life
Externally I laugh but internally I am burning
i have dealt with more than my plate can hold
but people still think I know nothing
but do they know what i have been put through

Over the wintry forest,
winds howl in rage
with no leaves to blow.

A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.

Sta pa hijr ki shom za da hijr night
Kala wawrrama pa left kala pa right

Aw zama rang ba wali yellow yellow na wi
Chi da yar mi anangi di red and white
Aw ka ta har sa harsa wi za wam right
Intizar mi darta wako tamam night

Everyday di pa kotsa bandi teregam
Da niqab na di khkara ka da makh white

No hagha day pa ma akhtar wi zama yara
Chi zama pa stargo walagi sta bright

Aw yawa wraz mi pa didan bandi ka full
Da Nazar zarrgai da ghama kawi flight

Roses are red
I sleep in a cave
This poem makes no sense
Microwave

A poet..he hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which art hath lodged within his hand--must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

I have loved Thee with two loves -
a selfish love and a love that is worthy of Thee.
As for the love which is selfish,
Therein I occupy myself with Thee,
to the exclusion of all others.
But in the love which is worthy of Thee,
Thou dost raise the veil that I may see Thee.
Yet is the praise not mine in this or that,
But the praise is to Thee in both that and this.

rabia al basri****

A stone I died and rose again a plant;
A plant I died and rose an animal;
I died an animal and was born a man.
Why should I fear? What have I lost by death?



Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi