Hamed 🎩🧬 (hamedns)

We never know that we are leaving when we set out We close the door as if in jest Fate follows after us drops the heavy latch and we shall meet no more. Love can do all things except restore the dead though perhaps even that would be within the power of such a giant, if only a body could be replaced But Love is weary and must sleep it is hungry and must graze So it abandons its shining fleet, and slips into some crooked path, vanishing from sight. That nothing exists but Love this is the only thing we know of Love. And it is enough. The cargo of the ship must match the measure of its hold. Poet: Emily Dickinson (USA) “A brief yet deep reading of Dickinson’s poem , where love is both weary and the only truth that endures.” https://paragraph.com/@0x2b07789f279e8e5cd64413417a247f8a782331a6/love-the-last-fleet-of-light

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He drains the last sip and cries out: How can a person forget their own name? And he forgets that he forgets. We stand, watching in all the legends, forgetting that it’s possible. And then, in the height of forgetting, we remember our names. And he sets his glass down and says: See? It’s impossible for one to forget their name. To be emptied is easy. To remain empty, that’s what’s hard. In a moment, you are emptied. And you forget that you were not supposed to forget. And you replay it a thousand times, as if another life is not supposed to begin. Again, he shouts: I forget that I have forgotten. I have forgotten my name, my identity, my soul. Its trace fades, and once more, he forgets that he had forgotten . Poet: Myself

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I think of you in the silent bends that drag me toward the valleys of unrest I think of you in the nights so cold they chase away the kindness of smiles I think of you in the ache that never repeats, that begs the wind to end it all I think of you in every nowhere that I still call me Poet: Myself

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