there’s no beauty here. i stare at my own eyes too long lately and am surprised whenever yours are more green than usual. i want to leave, but not really. i’m so bitter and harsh but all i really want is to be sweet and soft to you. it hurt to hear that you don’t even know me, but it’s true and i don’t know you and i don’t have much patience either. i put myself through too much and always look down the other path anyway… this wind is comin off the ocean and i wonder where you are and i want to tell you, i’m sorry i don’t want to bother you, but i want to be with you. i never can tell what you think of me
A cool wind blows on summer evenings, stirring the wheat.
The wheat bends, the leaves of the peach trees
rustle in the night ahead.
In the dark, a boy’s crossing the field:
for the first time, he’s touched a girl
so he walks home a man, with a man’s hungers.
Slowly the fruit ripens—
baskets and baskets from a single tree
so some rots every year
and for a few weeks there’s too much:
before and after, nothing.
Between the rows of wheat
you can see the mice, flashing and scurrying
across the earth, though the wheat towers above them,
churning as the summer wind blows.
The moon is full. A strange sound
comes from the field—maybe the wind.
But for the mice it’s a night like any summer night.
Fruit and grain: a time of abundance.
Nobody dies, nobody goes hungry.
No sound except the roar of the wheat.
(by Old Chum)
- Osho (via purplebuddhaproject)
- Sylvia Plath (via seabois)
Utka Nayika - A lady awaits her lover in the forest ca 1775-1780