Les plus lus ▸
nothing
Sometimes yes it is hard to deal
With things you have
Absolutely no control Over But
It will get over Nothing lasts forever
Nor us
Nor happiness
Nor pain
Poèmes sur le thème : impermanence
Poèmes sur le thème « impermanence » sur Poets.by.
V for Surrender
It’s not a question of letting
go but of never having had
hold. It’s not a question.
Our hands are empty often
and at best only transfer,
never own. Possession is
nine tenths of illusion.
Hands operate as points
lines use to reach points-next.
We might say all lives
are way-stations to nowhere: The I
passes through the Me,
connecting points to point
of ceasing-to-be. In a
related story, animals
demonstrate how to live
Autumn Clouds
autumn clouds
the little tick before
each petal falls
One at a Time
one at a time
the yellow leaves drift
to the ground
The Last to Go
the last to go
in late autumn twilight
slender birch
Classic
If everything is impermanent why do you want it
I don’t want anything for ever
You will disappoint everyone
Then you will be free
"The Dreams of My Heart"
The dreams of my heart and my mind pass,
Nothing stays with me long,
But I have had from a child
The deep solace of song;
If that should ever leave me,
Let me find death and stay
With things whose tunes are played out and forgotten
Like the rain of yesterday.
Japanese Hokku 6
This is but my robe,
His Majesty gave to me.
Garments will decay.
Palimpsest of Twilight
Darkness comes out of the earth
And swallows dip into the pallor of the west;
From the hay comes the clamour of children's
mirth;
Wanes the old palimpsest.
The night-stock oozes scent,
And a moon-blue moth goes flittering by:
All that the worldly day has meant
Wastes like a lie.
The children have forsaken their play;
A single star in a veil of light
Glimmers: litter of day
Is gone from sight.
How Much?
How much do you love me, a million bushels ?
Oh, a lot more than that, Oh, a lot more.
And to-morrow maybe only half a bushel ?
To-morrow maybe not even a half a bushel.
And is this your heart arithmetic?
This is the way the wind measures the weather.
Autumn Movement
I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing
lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of
the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the
year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full
of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit
of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things
go, not one lasts.
Falling Snow
The snow whispers about me.
And my wooden clogs
Leave holes behind me in the snow.
But no one will pass this way-
Seeking my footsteps.
And when the temple bell rings again
They will be covered and gone.