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One of the ancients,once said that poetry is "the mirror of the perfect soul." Instead of simply writing down travel notes or, not really thinking about the consequences, expressing your thoughts, memories or on paper, the poetic soul needs to seriously work hard to clothe the perfect content in an even more perfect poetic form.
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Reading books RomanceThe unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies.
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Genre of poetry touches such strings in the human soul, the existence of which a person either didn’t suspect, or lowered them to the very bottom, intending to give them delight.


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Read books online » Poetry » Dance Of the Stars by Amina Jarso (top 10 best books of all time TXT) 📖

Book online «Dance Of the Stars by Amina Jarso (top 10 best books of all time TXT) 📖». Author Amina Jarso



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the wind blowing away from the shore.

The eagle whose beaks' desire is to rise and soar.

I am just a ghost in a dress fit for two.

But the truth is,

It's not him, It's not her,

It's not any of you.

 

THE TSUNAMI AND ME

I stand there with my eyes tightly shut,

Arms stretched out to where I think you are,

Aiming to hush my wildly racing heart,

Keeping my mind off my body's scar.

In silence, we've spoken for infinite ages,

Whispering from behind cowardly ego's wall.

As I write what I'd say to you in private pages,

Here are the papers. Do dissolve them all.

I open an eye to peep at you

As you approach in a horrific sound.

So what's a feeble soul to do,

At the imminent danger of being drowned?

I scream at the top of my head

And turn dashing straight into a cave

And so, I exhale, Inhale,

Thank God I'm not dead.

I watch in tears as you retract your last wave.

 

TATA MANDELA

I gasp for breath,

In a closed iron cell.

My heart suffocating,

Stilling,

It's beating a rhythm

Of the far away echo

On the surface of a loosely stitched waters.

 

A shadow I know as mine stills,

Frozen at the glimpse of a tall,

Dark and beautiful angel,

Seeking to quench my thirsting self,

From thin yet broad, dark gullies.

An atlas of hideous deforming scars,

Whose pattern is the masterpiece art

On our future,

On the palms of an angel

That speaks fluent African with a southern accent.

 

He treads alone,

Carrying curved jars on his sleeves.

A giant blaze of strength,

With fists holding up the sky,

Flames suffocating fear,

Fire of the foe.

Filled with the echo of a song,

Sound of a lion's heartbeat.

 

This angel,  a dark worrior,

Walks down our windows,

Fighting spiders walking into us.

Weaving us into a feeble web,

With eyes that watch spring flowers,

In ice cold snow grow,

Like twinkling stars on a dark night,

Sunny days' secret moonlight,

Light-ning a streak of hope,

Lighting up our path to the top.

 

Yet, with a heart to ebrace,

He bleeds,

Covering up the memories of the two- seven,

27 years in an undefying defiance,

Daring, Determined, Dedicated.

His light on the battlefield,

Illuminating the 'dark' mass,

Of the many atoms on the African soil,

From which he learnt to flap his dreams,

His feathers curled up, drenched in agony.

WEBBED STARS

I live in  memories

Of pelted stones and sort out sands,

Curved in the ins of a cave,

Dripping loosely from rocks.

 

I wake up only from heartbeats'

Rhythm of tomorrow,

Of faint leaps,

And melodious air,

Rising above the deep dancehole,

Like dark traces on the shadows of the stars;

Burnt spaces on the fabric of the wind.

 

Beneath the dark exterior,

Deep in the inner oceanic circle,

Far beyond the highs of mountains,

Above the froth of green leaves,

Ahead of the wind's first tune,

Rising in the silent horizon,

Lie pieces of the sky,

Stained with what was me.

 

The sea bathes my soul a little more,

My skin droops from the peak of a mountain,

My words tumble down horizon's garden,

The tides toss and turn my tomorrow,

Canopies coldly cut open the scars

As winds awaken my worry.

 

I am not made of salty waters

Or thawing glaciers.

I have no branches embracing heaven.

I am just asking you to gather me,

In the human I once used to be

So I may finally find closure

Under a stone that reads

"She died young".

ALONE

Yes, I am standing drenched in the rain,

Yes, I am eavesdropping on the leaves again.

Yes, real life ended the day I was born,

For Yes, I'd rather be alone.

GREATNESS


     Beyond the blue- coloured clouds,

Is a white sky for me.

The purity of the heavens,

Beyond what my eyes can see.

Is there such a soul as mine,

Soaring and cracking under the pressure

At the possibilities of what lies above,

Or the curiosity of what's left beneath?

 

Is there one more spirit that comes to life,

Only at the touch of drowsy ideas?

One lost in daytime light?

The seething jealousy, like sparks of marble fire,

Reeks, freezing my once warm heart.

I was made for more than a heartbeat,

So I seek to thaw onto the wings of

GREATNESS.

 

DREAMS

I have strayed away from the brood,

Circle me not as a vulture for I refuse

To die, but pick me up vegetarian eagle

Because I want to fly.

BUTTERFLY WINGS

So there is this rainbow that only stretches out at night,

Red and violet eyelids,

Shielding green eyes from sunlight

But the blue sparkle secretly rides the orange at dusk,

Because she believes she shines only in pitch dark.

 

So there is this hairy caterpillar,

With bent butterfly wings,

Hanging loosely from a leaf,dreaming of flying things,

But the rest of the cocoon dwellers,

have to the sky gone,

Leaving her wishing hard that she could be anew reborn.

 

So there is this starfish with four tiny tube feet,

Learning how the average five feet starfish greet,

But the waves hurl her out of the sea up high,

As if to say four is aerodynamically fit for the sky.

 

So there is this storm that blows in after the rain,

For it was lost in simplicity of the desert plain,

But the showers moved on to the next location,

Leaving storm staring hard at thunder's dusty reflection.

 

So there is this woman carved in dull frozen soapstone,

Lying there colourful, crippled, imperfect,

Lost in her alone,

But just when she thought

It was the end of the long wait,

How could she have known

She was just a little too late?

JUST BECAUSE...!

For no reason I raise my pen,

Drag it along each and every line,

Leaving marks of my own

Claiming the dreams that are mine.

For I need me to believe,

When storms come,

To be there for myself.

Soothe me to stay calm,

For I am here in silence,

Waiting to be heard,

Expecting my moment,

To speak to the world.

For I always itched for it.

Though I fell once before,

I walk on towards the mirage

For now I want it even more.

ESSENCE OF LIFE
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