Oh, so many years have gone though I'm older but a year

Your mother's eyes, from your eyes, cry to me.

Regard your life as the most priceless treasure.

Қарттық келді:

Old age is here-sad thoughts, poor sleep and all.
Quick anger's poison fumes inflame your sullen soul.
Not one to share a thought with. Who will come
To soothe and sympathise in answer to your call? 

All men are doomed. All who are born must die.
Nobody can recover days gone by.
Both joy and grief must fade into the past. 

All plans and deeds cruel time will nullify.
In struggle fortify your soul-if you are wise.
Only the giftless bow to fate with downcast eyes.
Only the feckless play up to the mob. The truly wise man on himself relies.

Abai Qūnanbaiūly.

Dear friend, goodbye

No tears in my eyes.

It's My Seventh Birthday

Lady Lazarus:

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.   

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.   

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   

It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute   

Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.   

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   

For the hearing of my heart——

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge   

For a word or a touch   

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   

So, so, Herr Doktor.   

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,   

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.   

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,   

A wedding ring,   

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair   

And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath.

Matthew 8:32

All good children gather around, come join your hands and sing along.

Numbers Keep Falling off the Calendar’s Floor

Days:

What are days for?

Days are where we live.   

They come, they wake us   

Time and time over.

They are to be happy in:   

Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question

Brings the priest and the doctor   

In their long coats

Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin.

On the path of life, I wish you well

Divergent journeys, but we will meet again in hell.

Time is a kind friend

Let It Be Forgotten:

Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,

Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,

Let it be forgotten for ever and ever,

Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

If anyone asks, say it was forgotten

Long and long ago,

As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall

In a long forgotten snow.

Sara Teasdale.

If Only

52 years ago tonight, August 8th 1974

President Nixon shocks the country & the world in a lengthy address at 9pm est when he announces his resignation, effective the next day.

This comes after his own Republican party puts country above party and almost completely abandons… pic.twitter.com/T0S1A8nCtF

— Spiro’s Ghost (@AntiToxicPeople) August 8, 2026

My first political memory.

Dude resigned because the GOP still had a sense of morality and dignity, and a collective spine.  Yesterday, the Senate approved a pedophile protector to be the Attorney General.

RIP, Richard Milhous Nixon, you would've loved this age of corruption.

Up, up, up against the wall, motherfuckers!

Man, social media would've been lit back during the SLA days.

Efter någons död

After Someone’s Death:

Once there was a shock

that left behind a long, pale, shimmering comet’s tail.

It shelters us. It makes the TV images fuzzy.

It settles in cold droplets on the power lines.

You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sun

through groves where last year’s leaves hang on.

Like pages torn from old telephone books—

all of the names swallowed up by the cold.

It’s still pleasant to feel the heart beating.

But the shadow often seems more real than the body.

The samurai looks insignificant

beside his armor of black dragon scales.

Tomas Tranströmer.