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At leisure I went,
masked by mad hair with mad thoughts,
so easy does one smell the moss,
the feel of icy water
against ones skin,
seems more so like a reality
than from the imagination;
the weight of the world, heavy,
like two fat gorging Ifrits on each shoulder,
where I’m made to feel each step
deeper into the mud, treading
where my mortal soul will be embedded
that not even the devil could lure, or divinity can resurrect;
and in that place, for I’d burrow into the earth,
Where I could only hope for a growth to aspire,
For the sun to touch with a single ray,
to do but one good service
as by providing shade,
in place of a being, who once stood only for destruction.
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my body succumbed to the fire
as my heart resisted with ice.
Many nights I’ve laid vicious, eyes opened,
How when the rushing water started to level,
rising, as my body merged;
With eyes closed I opened my thoughts,
the smell of crisp plum when I was a child,
the caress of silk drawn over my face,
and those warm Summer evenings where clouds and skies
Shown pink, purple, blue, gray, silver, cream,
As the sun fated to dawn or dusk.
I ran toward a path of haunted shadows
beaten with delicate gold,
With all the leaves before me
I bound it into a coronet
Laden with dead blossoms for jewels,
I felt the pain that trickled
bled in crimson droplets
insignia with my flippant soul,
And to offer my crown to the faithful,
in knowing, nothing can last forever
but the moment thus when love was given.
Béla Kádár (Hungarian, 1877-1956), Baigneuses [Bathers], c.1935. Gouache on paper, 69.8 x 99.7 cm.
Poppylicious (by dougchinnery.com)
Source: Flickr / dougchinnery
Marc Riboud, Vers l’orient : Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan. 1955-1956. Editions Xavier Barral, Paris, 2012.
Stop on the road, Afghanistan, 1955.
Marc Riboud, Pékin, 1965.
Elevator girl, 1955
Agostino Arrivabene, Vanitas Vanitatum
Yukio Mishima, 1961 (photo by Ken Domon)
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