You Start Dying Slowly  

By Pablo Neruda

“You start dying slowly
if you do not travel,
if you do not read,
If you do not listen to the sounds of life,
If you do not appreciate yourself.

You start dying slowly
When you kill your self-esteem;
When you do not let others help you.

You start dying slowly
If you become a slave of your habits,
Walking every day on the same paths…
If you do not change your routine,
If you do not wear different colors
Or you do not speak to those you don’t know.

Read more

  Emily Dickinson

If you were coming in the Fall,

I’d brush the Summer by

With half a smile, and half a spurn,

As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,

I’d wind the months in balls —

And put them each in separate Drawers,

For fear the numbers fuse —

If only Centuries, delayed,

I’d count them on my Hand,

Subtracting, till my fingers dropped

Into Van Dieman’s Land.

If certain, when this life was out —

That yours and mine, should be

I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,

And take Eternity —

But, now, uncertain of the length

Of this, that is between,

It goads me, like the Goblin Bee —

That will not state — its sting.

       The Journey      

          By  Rabindranath Tagore

 

The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs;

and the flowers were all merry by the roadside;

and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds

 while we busily went on our way and paid no heed.

 We sang no glad songs nor played;

 we went not to the village for barter;

we spoke not a word nor smiled;

 we lingered not on the way.

 We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by.

The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade.

 Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon.

Read more

       The Exile

          Giuseppe Del Torre

                   Published 1955 

Here the sky is always smiling

Here the leaves are always green,

Here the water of the stream

Run sweetly at my feet,


But this soil is not my homeland.


Here the sun is always reflected

In the azure waters,

Lilies and violets

Grow all around me,


But this soil is not my homeland.


The maidens are as beauteous

As the fresh roses

Which love fashioned in their hair

As a token of fidelity;


But this soil is not my homeland.


In the regions of Italy

Is a queenly city;

The ligurian sea,

Always bathes its feet.

When you see it, it is my homeland.

My homeland it is.

  Emily Dickinson

If you were coming in the Fall,

I’d brush the Summer by

With half a smile, and half a spurn,

As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,

I’d wind the months in balls —

And put them each in separate Drawers,

For fear the numbers fuse —

If only Centuries, delayed,

I’d count them on my Hand,

Subtracting, till my fingers dropped

Into Van Dieman’s Land.

If certain, when this life was out —

That yours and mine, should be

I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,

And take Eternity —

But, now, uncertain of the length

Of this, that is between,

It goads me, like the Goblin Bee —

That will not state — its sting.

 

                Emily Dickinson

If you were coming in the Fall,

I’d brush the Summer by

With half a smile, and half a spurn,

As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,

I’d wind the months in balls —

And put them each in separate Drawers,

For fear the numbers fuse —

If only Centuries, delayed,

I’d count them on my Hand,

Subtracting, till my fingers dropped

Into Van Dieman’s Land.

If certain, when this life was out —

That yours and mine, should be

I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,

And take Eternity —

But, now, uncertain of the length

Of this, that is between,

It goads me, like the Goblin Bee —

That will not state — its sting.