Tuesday, February 25, 2025

Let it stay, let it flow

Let it stay, let it flow

Let it come, an unfolding breeze,
whispering secrets of the day,
the laughter of sunlight on rippling water,
shadows dancing with the dusk.

Each moment, both fleeting and infinite,
a river of sensations,
flowing through the heart,
glistening with joy,
adorned in sorrow's heavy cloak.

Let it be, this gentle embrace,
the warmth of a stranger's smile,
mistakes that carve wisdom into flesh,
and the quiet ache of unfulfilled dreams—

All invited, all welcomed,
nestled in the corners of the soul,
where understanding blooms like
wildflowers
in a field untouched,
where each petal softens the
edges of truth.

Let it go, the weight that binds,
release the parchment of memory,
the joy that once painted the skies,
and the grief that whispered in echoes—

A formless transition,
the sigh of a leaf on autumn winds,
fleeting yet profound,
forever etched in the tapestry of time,
freeing the spirit,
to dance in the twilight of duality.

Be established in soul consciousness,
rooted like ancient trees that bend,
yet do not break, nor brake,
cradling both storm and stillness,
embracing the transient nature of being,
where love and loss intertwine,
like the threads of a loom,
weaving existence into the fabric
of something greater,
a vast expanse of light and shadow,
where all things come,
all things are,
and all things, eventually,
let go.


Qu'il demeure, qu'il s'écoule.

Qu’il vienne, ce souffle éclos,

murmure de secrets au fil du jour,
rire du soleil sur l’eau frémissante,
ombres dansant avec le crépuscule.

Chaque instant, à la fois fugace et éternel,
rivière de sensations,
coulant au creux du cœur,
miroitant de joie,
paré du lourd manteau du chagrin.

Qu’il soit, cet doux embras,
la chaleur d’un sourire inconnu,
les fautes gravant la sagesse dans la chair,
et la sourde douleur des rêves inachevés—

Tous conviés, tous accueillis,
blottis aux recoins de l’âme,
où l’entendement s’épanouit
telle une fleur sauvage
dans un champ inviolé,
où chaque pétale adoucit
les contours acérés de la vérité.

Laisse s’en aller le poids qui enchaîne,
libère le parchemin des souvenirs,
la joie qui peignait jadis le ciel,
et le deuil murmurant en écho—

Transition sans forme,
soupir d’une feuille aux vents d’automne,
éphémère et pourtant profond,
gravé à jamais dans la trame du temps,
libérant l’âme,
pour qu’elle danse au crépuscule des contraires.

Sois ancré dans la conscience de l’âme,
enraciné tel l’arbre antique qui ploie
sans se rompre, ni se freiner,
berçant l’orage et l’accalmie,
épousant la fugacité de l’être,
où l’amour et la perte s’entrelacent,
comme les fils d’un métier à tisser,
tressant l’existence à la trame
d’un dessein plus vaste,
une immensité de lumière et d’ombre,
où tout advient,
où tout est,
et où tout, enfin,
s’efface.

The recipe for sadness


I stand among my goods,
guarding them, shielding them.
Yet, I feel empty,
poor and inadequate,
like a beggar with an outstretched bowl.

Surrounded by well-wishers,
lost in the midst of company,
I waver with uncertainty,
as fragile as my lonely neighbor,
adrift without a place to stand.

How strange it is—
that wealth holds no warmth,
that possessions bring no peace.
Among the crowd,
I am nothing but an island.

But I asked, I searched,
and at last, I found my answer:

It is the insatiable greed for things,
the endless hunger to hoard,
the desperate longing to belong—
without learning to hold,
without knowing how to cherish—
that has turned warmth into cold,
and left my soul barren.

 

La recette de la tristesse

Je veille sur mes biens,
les protège, les garde.
Et pourtant, je me sens vide,
misérable et démuni,
comme un mendiant tendant son bol.

Entouré de visages aimables,
perdu au cœur des bienveillants,
je vacille d’incertitude,
aussi fragile que mon voisin solitaire
sans repère, sans refuge.

Quelle ironie:
accumuler n’apporte aucun bien,
posséder n’offre aucun port.
Au milieu de la foule,
je ne suis qu’une île.

Heureusement, j’ai cherché,
questionné ce gouffre en moi.
Et j’ai compris:
c’est la soif insatiable d’avoir,
le désir d’entasser,
l’obsession d’appartenir
sans apprendre à chérir,
qui a rendu mes biens glacés,
et mon cœur, désert.


 

Monday, February 24, 2025

Beyond words through words

In a world wrapped in echoes, where the chatter leads the way,
I’m lost in the cheating, where the truth seems to sway.
Words flung like shadows; they dance in deadly flight
Hidden in the quiet, a spark that genuinely feels right.

If your words come from words, they’re just noise to me
A clamor of confusion, a thoughtless symphony
If they come from silence, where the heart heals to see,
The wound found in stillness, the sound would hum to be.

Through the haze of conversations, like whispers in the dark,
I search for the unspoken, the unpolished, the stark
A glance can tell a story; a breath can break the scheme
In the pauses and the spaces, I can touch your dream.

If your words come from words, they’re just noise to me
A clamor of confusion, a thoughtless symphony
If they come from silence, where the heart heals to see,
The wound found in stillness, the sound would hum to be.

In the quiet, our souls collide,
No need for frayed expressions to confide.
In a moment of wordlessness, understanding blooms,
In the silence, the light shines like a silver white moon.

If your words come from words, they’re just noise to me
A clamor of confusion, a thoughtless symphony
If they come from silence, where the heart heals to see,
The wound found in stillness, the sound would hum to be.

Let’s weave our stories with the threads of the unseen
In the hush between our hearts, we’ll find what we mean
For in silence, sweet quietness, live emotions flow free
That’s where I’ll understand you, that’s where we’ll be.  

Sunday, February 16, 2025

the euphoria

We chase the sky,
hoping to find a high that
matches the hunger within
us, we inject ourselves with
the next dose of desire,
a bitter, fleeting rush
that never fills the hollow 

the mask of satisfaction—
a seconf skin but beneath it,
emptiness fills
sifting through the hours
with greedy sense,
pounding for more
in the distorted reflection
of mirrors, the masters

cupidity
a fire that burns,
consumes,
and leaves behind nothing
but ashes
anger stirs, greed spreads like
wildfire, chokes our chests with
smoke and still,
we press forward,
filling the void
with plastic wings we
never needed

what if we stopped
what if we turned inward,
and sought a high that
does not fade
a permanent peace, 
unbroken by time’s passing
or the noise of the world

if we knew the Self,
beyond the ego’s lies,
beyond the stories of 
chasing we tell ourselves—
what would we find
that it never ever absent
from us, it was there like
a stillness that doesn’t burn,
a light that never dims
a fulfillment that is whole,
a love that is pure,
for good, and in that,
perhaps, we would finally
understand that the euphoria
we’ve been seeking
was always present within

Stillness

The sky spills its colours,
shifting from soft lavender
to a bold, burning orange
breezes weave through trees,
leaving behind whispers of stories
once told, untold, remembered, lost
tales of forgotten mornings,
and dreams that never quite took root

the ground beneath me hums—
not with noise, but with an ancient
pulse,
dip dip beep

a rhythm older than my thoughts,
pushing up through the soles of my
shoes,
reminding me of that stillness,
of the failures successes as illusion


I let my feet follow the path,
though it’s less a way than a question,
the earth offering no answers,
only the quiet inimitable hum
of its knowing


the world spins as I hold my breath,
waiting for something to break the silence,
but all that comes is the rustle of leaves,
a reminder that everything is already in motion,
from the brand new hue to the old bland view
even when we know we stand still