Time ebbs and flows and rushes and freezes and folds on itself

Nostalgia

Regret

Anticipation

Calm

Hope

And chaos

"APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain..."

T.S.E.

On the roof

High above the cathedral streets,
where the folk rush by in the cold shadow of the day,
the birds wait silently.

Beyond the noise of the crowds,
the love and hate and crying and shouting,
the birds stand sentinel and steady
at one with the wind.

For the people below
have lost their way in the shadows
and can no longer see
the sky.

Soon, the birds will raise their heads
open their wings
and Fly to the sea.

A Little Doubt is Better

Traditions come from the past, of high import if they be True;
Ay, but weak is the chain of those who warrant their truth.
Consult thy reason and let perdition take others all:
Of all the conference Reason best will counsel and guide.
A little doubt is better than total credulity:
Al-Ma'arri

All this they do not see.
Butterflies on a mountain path
Sun sinking behind the swollen river
The city at night, blinking in solitude
A house heavy with books and silence
The late monsoon rain
-
Glowing spheres
Warm orange, red, yellow and green
Gently floating, merging, parting
Some near, some far
Against a backdrop of white eternity.
All this they see.
-
We walk the Earth a little time
Invent distractions for our minds,
The Angels watch me and I seek
A little truth before I sleep.

Kiyomizu-dera, Kyoto.

Live every moment afresh

Because you have not been here before.

Because each moment you are in a foreign land.

Be like the child in the meadow

And the traveller on the far off shore.

"Where are the men with the strength to be men?
Where are those who have eyes and can see?
Looking around, I see nothing but cowards and cynics,
And slaves, slaves to their own senses.
And every one of these poor beggars
Thinks of himself as another Aristotle.
You tell me they have written poems-
You call that poetry?
I call it the cawing of crows.
It's time for the prophet's anger
to purify poetry,
Left too long to the fingers of
aesthetes and time-wasters.
I have carved my song in the high
forehead of Time.
They know it and hate it-it is too
much."

Solomon Ibn Gabirol (ca. 1021-1058)