to write like this
08/18/2010 03:10 a.m.
Momma gave me a book tonight. It's a book of love poems originally published in 1902. This copy though was printed in October 1941. It is showing age. I ran my fingers over the binding. Feeling each imperfection. The pages have yellowed. I close my eyes and inhale. It smells of many years. My thoughts rush. Wondering how many hands have touched these pages over the last 70 years. Where it has been. What it has experienced. And now...here it is with me. I turn the pages so very gently. Breathing in it's wonderment. Page 5. Page 67. Page 78. Page 110. I stop. The words I took in....left me in complete silence. If only I could write such beauty as this. The book is India's Love Lyrics by Adela Florence Nicolson written under the name Laurence Hope. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. To be the reader tonight is peace.



Second Song



How much I loved that way you had
Of smiling most, when very sad,
A smile which carried tender hints
Of delicate tints
And warbling birds,
Of sun and spring,
And yet, more than all other thing,
Of Weariness beyond all Words!

None other ever smiled that way,
None that I know,
--The essence of all Gaiety lay,
Of all mad mirth that men may know,
In that sad smile, serene and slow,
That on your lips was wont to play.

It needed many delicate lines
And subtle curves and roseate tints
To make that weary radiant smile;
It flickered, as beneath the vines
The sunshine through green shadow glints
On the pale path that lies below,
Flickered and flashed, and died away,
But the strange thoughts it woke meanwhile
Were wont to stay.

Thoughts of Strange Things you used to know
In dim, dead lives, lived long ago,
Some madly mirthful Merriment
Whose lingering light is yet unspent,
--Some unimaginable Woe,
--Your strange, sad smile forgets these not,
Though you, yourself, long since, forgot!

I am currently Perfect
I am listening to Pandora