如果宇宙在慢慢地收缩直到涅槃那么行星的颜色应该看起来更蓝不用深蓝只比清晨稍多一抹淡淡的蓝 霍金说过宇宙的法则是万有引力星云星系生生不息犹如阴阳太极纵使百万光年之距旋转相吸至始如一 也许人类只是造物主意识的一瞬间但我们笃信了缘分的羁牵虽然看不见虽然相隔万里却能够感知彼此的心弦 回忆起初夏的那个清晨淡蓝色的天空你红着双眼却说不清和过去有哪些不同年少的我轻信某种力量会让我们再次相逢 多年后我在独自思索如果宇宙真在收缩为何星光的每一抹蓝都被红黄所包裹为何引力终究抵不过命运的流逝与造作 如果现实逐渐消散了行星留给我们的畅想缘分的天空依然要涂上彩妆尽管红与黄是离逝的惆怅是对曾经那一抹淡蓝的渴望 2018年 于特拉华
It seems people have reached the same conclusion:
He is a man who suffers from a strange delusion
Of justice and equality, and lives in an ancient myth
Of love and brotherhood for all men he deals with.
think the way
water shapes the shoreline
carves canyon from fissure
and splits landmass into zones;
practice the way
tree cells grow layer upon layer
forge the trunk from within
and tell virtues by its inner rings
when we wake up tomorrow, we will pray to Allah,
till our foreheads darken, knees swollen, till Allahu Akbar
are the very words that are the most joyfully spoken,
to the Almighty God our hearts are faithfully open.
july’s sun, so longed for in december,
paints a burning light on his shoulder
that used to be both tender and tough.
by early afternoon, he has had enough,
and quietly withdraws into the woods,
into broken shadows as dim as the closets,
where things stored that wouldn’t be forgotten:
Emperor Nero startled while Peter the Apostle blazed:
The Gospel was not written by human hands. In His plan,
The redemption has been done on earth for every man,
For the greatest mystery is Christ within! The emperor gazed,
the flow of people surges in and out of the subway
each day I watch with a mix of longing and despair
you entered my world, a really dull place, I would say
where all things are images of you, as I’m aware
Listen, oh woman
you are a speaker
greater than Homer
because someone can
catch the sage’s lines in ancient Greek
but not your words in a patient week.
There is a poet and he has a pen
The commonest tool amongst men,
Oft with his wild textual skills
The wonderland he entered thrills
The forest the hills and the dews
With uncurbed fancies he pursues
The pen back and forth releases ink
To push greatness beyond its brink
For writing, being a creative act
Has been a biological contract
Rooted in the body — chiefly the male
Between our life and romantic tale
And bad poems by asses are like this
Weird, wicked, in order to draw hisses
There are sexual implications embedded in the lines, which makes it a “bad” poem.