Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust, First Part
“You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.”
tr- "Yapamazsın, eğer hissedemezsen, eğer hiç
Ruhundan yükselir ve sallanır
Her bir dinleyicinin kalbi,
En derin güçle, basit yollarla.
Sonsuza dek oturacaksın, bir şeyleri birbirine yapıştıracaksın,
Başkalarının artıklarından bir güveç pişirmek,
Sefil bir ateşe üflüyorum,
Ölen kül yığınından yapılmış.
Bırak maymunlar ve çocuklar sanatını övsün,
Eğer hayranlıkları zevkinize uygunsa,
Ama asla kalpten kalbe konuşmayacaksınız,
Kalbinizin boşluğundan yükselmedikçe."
Deep into a dying day
I took a step outside an innocent heart
Prepare to hate me fall when I may
This night will hurt you like never before
🎃🪽
you made me sad.
but still good night,
i said.
you slept soundly.
while i am very sad badly.
and i couldn't sleep at all.
b'cuz i cried a lot.
and i wanted to call.
THE RAVEN - Edgar Allan Poe
ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly
This happens because the gift is in our heart, while Allah is in our hand. And what is in the hand can be put aside easily. What is in the heart, we cannot live without—and would sacrifice anything to have. But sooner or later we need to ask ourselves what it is that we really worship: The gift or the Giver? The beauty or the Source and Definition of Beauty? The provision or the Provider? The creation or the Creator? The tragedy of our choice is that we chain our necks with attachments, and then ask why we choke. We put aside our Real air, and then wonder why we can’t breathe. We give up our only food, and then complain when we’re dying of starvation. After all, we stick the knife in our chest and then cry because it hurts. So much. But what we have
done, we have done to ourselves.
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Place me in my casket tonight
Because I'm already dying inside
Pale skin so cold to the touch
Like a rose in bloom when we blush
Dark eyes meet under the sky
The stars are out, we're alive in the night
My hollow heart finds it too hard to trust
We're all alone until we turn to back to dust
21/01/2024
Dream Of A Curious Man
Do you, as I do, know a zesty grief,
And is it said of you, 'curious man!'
I dreamed of dying; in my spirit's heat
Desire and horror mixed, a strange mischance;
Anguish and ardent hope were tightly knit;
The more the fatal glass was drained of sand
The more I suffered, and I savoured it;
My heart pulled out of the familiar, and
I was a child, eager to see a play,
Hating the curtain standing in the way...
At last the chilling verity came on:
Yes, I was dead, and in the dreadful dawn
Was wrapped. And what! That's all there is to tell?
The screen was raised, and I was waiting still.
Said he, 'tis not Life I seek, nor am I afraid of dying, (and at that Word, cut a Piece of Flesh from his own Throat, and threw it at 'em) yet still I would live if I could, till I had perfected my Revenge: But, oh! it cannot be; I feel Life gliding from my Eyes and Heart.
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Fatima
O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind,
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.
Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the
It made her think of the other stories that said his kisses might have been fatal, but they were worth dying for.
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