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Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Confuse not love with the raptures of possession, which bring the cruelest of sufferings. For, notwithstanding the general opinion, love does not cause suffering: what causes it is the sense of ownership, which is love's opposite.

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She Is Not In Love With The Devil

She is not in love with the devil
Because the devil doesn't respect her
And neither her wishes

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Bertolt Brecht

I Want To Go With The One I Love

[Original]

Ich will mit dem gehen, den ich liebe.
Ich will nicht ausrechnen, was es kostet.
Ich will nicht nachdenken, ob es gut ist.
Ich will nicht wissen, ob er mich liebt.
Ich will mit ihm gehen, den ich liebe.

[Translation]

I want to go with the one I love.
I do not want to calculate the cost.
I do not want to think about whether it's good.
I do not want to know whether he loves me.
I want to go with whom I love.

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We fell in love with the land

We fell in love with the land
when it became ours
going to explore
the plains, the deserts and mountains

and shook
Holland and England from us,
like a dog does
when its fur gets wet from water

and our reality is here and now
and even though at times things are grey
as if the new government want to gorge us down,
we can regard no other place as our own

we have lost our hearts here
there’s no other land that charms us as much,
no other horizon that is so own to us
of which we hear the heartbeat in our own.

[Reference: The Gift Outright by Robert Frost.]

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The man with the love

The man with the love
Never dropped me on your pack
For my love is in your part
Not to mention in particular
The sweetness in my mind
That keeps the reminder

Never child away from me
For your love had sponge my lips
With acronyms of taste
Not to measure with taster
In my inner memo
And yet non on my memory

Never close the door
For your closeness is mouthful like dog
Hotter than the pretender
That is full of intruder
And yet no place for extrovert

Don't call me your friend
For your eyes lack friendship
In the minds of our days
Not to taught of our holyday
That is full of song that sang

Hear me as I call love! Love! !
Bewared of lust
For love is good
But not the earthly goodness
That is full of sins.

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In Love With The Eighties (Pink Tux To The Prom)

So it was Jeremy in 1983
IN his ocean pacific I
Who got a bloody knee
On his skateboard
In the half-pipe
In the backyard
That Tuesday night
And I'm only gonna pierce my left ear
And I've been workin' on this mustache all summer long
And my favorite band will always be Tears for Fears
And I'm gonna wear a pink tux to the prom
Cutting class through the first floor window
He's driving fast 'cause he never did a thing slow
And I look up to my big bro
'Cause in the 80's all the ladies grabbed his hand and never let go
doo doo, a doo doo doo
Pink tux to the prom
I am gonna wear a pink tux to the prom
Live without a care...what could possibly go wrong?
When you're president of the breakfast club
And you're not hesitant to fall in love
To throw it all away to fall in love with the 80's
'Cause you threw it all away to fall in love with the 80's

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What Real Love Has To Do With The Lust?

These days everybody uses word love to express his or her feeling
But the problem is majority of them don’t know the real love meaning

What real love has to do with the lust?
If you get confused between love and lust, you are going to pay the price, whatever the cost

Remember, one of the most important part of your life is your feeling
So, when it comes to the real love, you better watch out with whom you are dealing

Real love requires sacrifices, respect, caring, forgiveness and trust
If you attracted to someone solely for your looks, that’s not the love, that’s a pure lust

This poem has a message especially for young people and teenage
Because lust, not the real love is the most popular one at this age

You can easily involve in a bad relationship
If every time someone claims, that loves you and you give away your heart so easy and so cheap

unfortunately, the teenage girls are the most victims of the lust
So, you better get your college degree first, then you mature enough to know, when it comes to real love, who you should trust

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In Love With The 80's (Pink Tux To The Prom)

So it was Jeremy in 1983 in his ocean pacific tee who got a bloody knee
on a skateboard
in the half pipe
in the backyard that tuesday night
and i'm only gonna pierce my left ear
and i've been working on this mustache all summer long
and my favorite band will always be tears for fears
and i'm gonna wear a pink tux to the prom
cuttin class thru the first floor window
he's driving fast cuz he never did a thing slow
and i look up to my big bro cuz in the 80's all the ladies grabbed his hand and couldn't let go
(chorus)
do do do do do pink tux to the prom
do do do do do pink tux to the prom
I am gonna wear a pink tux to the prom
live without a care
of what could possibly go wrong
when you're the president of The Breakfast Club
and you're not hesitant to fall in love
to fall in love,
to throw it away to fall in love with the 80's
I am gonna wear
a pink tux to the prom
live without a care
what could possibly go wrong
I am gunna wear
a pink tux to the prom
live without a care
cuz you threw it away
to fall in love...
with the 80's
(do do do do do do.....)

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In Love With The 80's

so it was jeremy in 1983
in his ocean pacific t
who got a bloody knee
on his skateboard
in the half pipe
in the backyard
that tuesday night
and i'm only gonna pierce my left ear
and i've been working on this mustache all summer long
and my favorite band will always be tears for fears
and i'm gonna wear a pink tux to the prom
cutting class through the first floor window
he's driving fast cause he never did a thing slow
and i look up to my big bro
cause in the 80's all the ladies grabbed his hand and couldn't let go
and i'm only gonna pierce my left ear
and i've been working on this mustache all summer long
and my favorite band will always be tears for fears
and i'm gonna wear a pink tux to the prom (a pink tux to the prom)
doo doo, a doo doo doo
pink tux to the prom
doo doo, a doo doo doo
pink tux to the prom
i am gonna wear a pink tux to the prom
live without a care...what could possibly go wrong?
when you're president of the breakfast club
and you're not hesitant to fall in love (to fall in love)
to throw it away to fall in love with the 80's
i am gonna wear a pink tux to the prom
live without a care...what could possibly go wrong?
i am gonna wear a pink tux to the prom
live without a care...
cause you threw it away to fall in love with the 80's
doo doo, a doo doo
doo doo, a doo doo
doo doo, a doo doo

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Tonight, Am In Love With The Rain

Tonight, am in love with the rain
The beating sound on my window pane
The howling wind, the dripping water
Man and beast seeking shelter

Am in love with the flashing light
The roaring thunder deep in the night
Am wondering how frightening it would be
To meet a storm in the open sea

Am in love with pools and puddles
Splashing water and the ripples
And waving wipers of cars driving by
Lighted images of raindrops from the sky

Am in love with cold water on my feet
As i take a walk on the empty street
And i love to have a bath in the rain
To melt away this lingering strain

But i dont always love the rain!
Sometimes, it brings memories of yesterdays pain
And my thoughts would mingle for too long
With the tune of the its mournful song

Sometimes, it brings the thoughts of storms at sea
And that fearsome waves that benumb me
And i, standing, wondering how
I sailed through her fiercest jaw

Sometimes, it brings the thought of death,
Which is the curse upon all birth
And reminding me how times fly
And how one day all flesh shall lie

Tonight my emotions are running deep
With things that make me laugh and weep
Tonight, here in my dingy room
I see flashes of gloom and bloom

My age long fears, are muffled by the pelting rain
And my common tears flushed down the drain
Tonight, am in love with the rain
And its beats on my window pane! !

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Ella with the Shining Hair

Through many a fragrant cedar grove
A darkened water moans;
And there pale Memory stood with Love
Amongst the moss-green stones.
The shimmering sunlight fell and kissed
The grasstree’s golden sheaves;
But we were troubled with a mist
Of music in the leaves.

One passed us, like a sudden gleam;
Her face was deadly fair.
“Oh, go,” we said, “you homeless Dream
Of Ella’s shining hair!

“We halt, like one with tired wings,
And we would fain forget
That there are tempting, maddening things
Too high to clutch at yet!

“Though seven Springs have filled the Wood
With pleasant hints and signs,
Since faltering feet went forth and stood
With Death amongst the pines.”

From point to point unwittingly
We wish to clamber still,
Till we have light enough to see
The summits of the hill.

“O do not cry, my sister dear,”
Said beaming Hope to Love,
“Though we have been so troubled here
The Land is calm above;

“Beyond the regions of the storm
We’ll find the golden gates,
Where, all the day, a radiant Form,
Our Ella, sits and waits.”

And Memory murmured: “She was one
Of God’s own darlings lent;
And Angels wept that she had gone,
And wondered why she went.

“I know they came, and talked to her,
Through every garden breeze,
About eternal Hills of Myrrh,
And quiet Jasper Seas.

For her the Earth contained no charms;
All things were strange and wild;
And I believe a Seraph’s arms
Caught up the sainted Child.”

And Love looked round, and said: “Oh, you
That sit by Beulah’s streams,
Shake on this thirsty life the dew
Which brings immortal dreams!

“Ah! turn to us, and greet us oft
With looks of pitying balm,
And hints of heaven, in whispers soft,
To make our troubles calm.

“My Ella with the shining hair,
Behold, these many years,
We’ve held up wearied hands in prayer;
And groped about in tears.”

But Hope sings on: “Beyond the storm
We’ll find the golden gates
Where, all the day, a radiant Form,
Our Ella, sits and waits.”

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To C. Lloyd, On His Proposing To Domesticate With The Author

A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep,
But a green mountain variously up-piled
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep
Or colored lichens with slow oozing weep;
Where cypress and the darker yew start wild;
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash
Dance brightened the red clusters of the ash;
Beneath whose boughs, by stillest sounds beguiled,
Calm pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;
Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,
That rustling on the bushy cliff above
With melancholy bleat of anxious love
Made meek enquiry for her wand'ring lamb:
Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb
E'en while the bosom ached with loneliness--
How heavenly sweet, if some dear friend should bless
Th' advent'rous toil, and up the path sublime
Now lead, now follow; the glad landscape round
Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark
The berries of the half up-rooted ash
Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash--
Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock;
In social silence now, and now t' unlock
The treasured heart; arm linked in friendly arm,
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
Mutt'ring brow-bent, at unwatched distance lag;
Till high o'er-head his beck'ning friend appears,
And from the forehead of the topmost crag
Shouts eagerly; for haply there uprears
That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs
Which latest shall detain the enamoured sight
Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,
Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;
And haply, basoned in some unsunned cleft,
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears,
Sleeps unsheltered there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!
Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
Stretched on the crag, and shadowed by the pine,
And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,
Ah, dearest Charles! it were a lot divine
To cheat our noons in moralizing mood,
While west winds fanned our temples, toil-bedewed
Then downwards slope, oft-pausing, from the mount
To some low mansion in some woody dale,
Where, smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss
Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss!

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore,
The hill of knowledge I essayed to trace;
That verd'rous hill with many a resting-place
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour
To glad and fertilize the subject plains;
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod,
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod
Where inspiration, his diviner strains
Low-murm'ring, lay; and starting from the rocks
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age,
And mad oppression's thunder-clasping rage!

O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime;
And from the stirring world uplifted high
(Whose noises faintly wafted on the wind
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,
And oft the melancholy theme supply),
There while the prospect thro' the gazing eye
Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul,
We'll laugh at wealth, and learn to laugh at fame,
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,
As neighb'ring fountains image each the whole.

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Walt Whitman

As I Ebb'd With the Ocean of Life

1
As I ebb'd with the ocean of life,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,
Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,
Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,
I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,
Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,
Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the
         land of the globe.

Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow
      &nb sp; those slender windrows,
Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the
         tide,
Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,
Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses,
These you presented to me you fish-shaped island,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd with that electric self seeking types.

2
As I wend to the shores I know not,
As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.

O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth,
Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,
Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I
       &n bsp;have not once had the least idea who or what I am,
But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet
         untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd,
Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and
         bows,
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,
Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.

I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single
      &nb sp; object, and that no man ever can,
Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart
        ; upon me and sting me,
Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.

3
You oceans both, I close with you,
We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing
      &n bsp; not why,
These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all.

You friable shore with trails of debris,
You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot,
What is yours is mine my father.

I too Paumanok,
I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been
        ; wash'd on your shores,
I too am but a trail of drift and debris,
I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.

I throw myself upon your breast my father,
I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,
I hold you so firm till you answer me something.

Kiss me my father,
Touch me with your lips as I touch those I love,
Breathe to me while I hold you close the secret of the murmuring
         I envy.

4
Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)
Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,
Endlessly cry for your castaways, but fear not, deny not me,
Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you
         or gather from you.

I mean tenderly by you and all,
I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we
       & nbsp;lead, and following me and mine.
Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,
Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,
(See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,
See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)
Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,
Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating,
         drifted at random,
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,
Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,
We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out
         before you,
You up there walking or sitting,
Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.

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Patrick White

Not With The Eye, But Through It

Not with the eye, but through it
easy to see all the pristine faults and flaws
in the immaculate mirror of the lake
that asks me to surrender my sword
as proof the scars on the mirage of my identity
were not self-inflicted or mythically inflated.
Sometimes the mind is nothing but a fraud of water,
a handful of starmud from the bottom up
with an ego like the snapping turtle of the world
savaging the plumage of the moon,
a wild swan thawing like an ice-floe
riding her own reflection downstream
like the pale fragrance of an elegant loveletter.

This place is the downgraded stuff of dreams
that animates the misfortunes of decay
with calendar-eyed views of propinquitous mortality.
Stakes of ghostly bones embedded like fractured trees.
Red ochre cedars like the fragile skeletons of filigreed fish.
Dozy limbs of basswood on the damp shore
pulped by a flesh-eating disease
like the hard heart of an old man gone soft
in the limelight of a circus of fungus on tour.
Not an outrage, but a lingering kind of odium,
this whole place smells like a human on its death bed.

Stealth in the indelible silence of the dead
undergoing their dissolute transformations
into the effluvium of the living in the wake
of their passage through life. What was
solid and upright as the rung of a ladder of oak
or the lifeboats of the oar-winged maple keys
before they went down with the ship,
good captains, all, with nowhere left to fall,
let's its hair down like wavelengths and willows
and returns to going with the flow of things
like ice melting into water again, everything real,
with nothing to stub your toe upon
like the imagined intransigence of the world.

Wing of bat, eye of newt, heart of toad
and the perfect pitch of a virgin hummingbird,
mummified skin from the leaves
of the star clusters of borage sapphires,
the ashes of a poem that immolated itself
like daylilies that no one had ever cried over,
the unreasoned ennui of a seasoned wizard's
attitude toward suffering to play musical chairs
at the periodic table and rise above the salt
where you properly belong enthroned like a dragon
on the skulls of your incommensurable ancestors.

Salt the earth and it will burn green as leaves
in the fires of life nothing can put out.
The axis mundi stirs the seabeds of the ocean
and visionary wraiths hang above it like rags of mist
summoned to the cauldron of the lake
like a seance to the endless first step
of an ongoing beginning that calls them out of exile,
like the lords of life from the last exorcism
they went through like the imperfectible ideals
of the wind sweeping stars and deserts off the stairs
of an underground passage burial
that aimed its spirit at the stars in Orion
but whose bones only made it as far as a flashlight
in the nervous hands of a grave robber
startled by his own amazement
at whose likeness embers in old gold
on the death mask that greets him like a twin of time.

Waterlilies blooming nocturnally in algaic scum
as if they were spreading their feathers
for any chance encounter with the stars
they've fallen in love with in their own images.
Stumps of the beavers, and here and there,
the occasional chain saw, I hear a man shrieking
in the tent of a field hospital trying to heal the Civil War
with the tools of neo-lithic carpenters.
I hear the crow barking orders to its officers.

Significance by association with the lost and fallen
bleeding out like flags on an abandoned battle field.
You fall through the cracks if you don't jump the gaps
and the rest is just the history of electricity
prodding you to twitch like the puppet-master
of Giovanni's frog prodded into leaping like the dead
trying to keep pace with the measure of their hearts
like lily pads wired to circuitous nervous systems
grounded in the silken muck at the bottom of things
that has settled like a peaceful sediment
over the useful refuse of our unsalvaged dreams.
The encyclopedic detritus of our arboreal souls
we keep recurring out of like cosmic eggs
in a deep sleep of inconceivable wonders to come.

Wingspans of the galaxies in the eyes of the seed-atoms,
I sow my thoughts and feelings like symbols and images
as far and wide as the Milky Way, the Road of Ghosts,
like an old farmer I heard of who went mad out here
sowing the deep woods, holding on to the tail
of a black bull that tugged at his heart like a new moon
or the harvest of stars in the wild rice fields of the Pleiades
adorning the horns of Taurus in a garland of light
so the wide-eyed native women could thresh them
into the bows of their birch bark canoes.

How long ago was that? Is there still
an Algonquin village around here somewhere
that didn't surrender its gates to the urgencies of time?
Some memory smouldering like a fire pit under the leaves
that have written over the history of this place
like draught after draught of an autumnal lie ever since?
Did they ever come down to the water like me
to watch the moonlight ricochet off
the wet anthracite scales of a rat snake
sliding its S-curves back into the water
like a wavelength of darkness alone and homeless
in the occult palace of its black diamond eyes?

Did they feel the same chill of recognition
when it disappeared like a sacred insight
into an abyss of enlightened unknowing
that's as boundless as the myriad infinitudes
of forms and events that arise
out of the creative destruction of the mind
efflorescing out of its own ashes, sunflowers at dawn
when the urns convulse like wombs,
and flowers imitate the garish rainbows
of our afterbirth like the palette of a masterpiece
that's caught the ruin and renewal of life
in the enigmatic features of our photogenic minds?

Posing like mood-shifting chameleons
aurorally lifting the veils of a dark mirror
to reveal our own eyes looking back at us
when the night turns around, saturated
like ripe fruit with the mysterious sorrows
of being alive to witness our own windfall
like a rootless tree well-seasoned in letting go
of the orchards that once danced with the wind
in their wedding gowns, climbing up
this scaffolding of bones like a serpent of picture-music
helically winding up the stairwells of our vertebrae
like a thought making the rounds
of an unbroken circle of zodiacal skulls
like boundary stones in an unsustainable orbit,
all living things perfecting the simplicity of death
in the labyrinth of their own elaboration
by reducing it to an axiom of collaborative absurdity
then erecting it like a meteoric cornerstone
above the graves they dig for themselves
monolithically from the sky down,
one foot in the boat and the other clinging to shore.

I can hear the music of the spheres
in the hidden harmonies of dark matter
I've been listening to for light years
like a song with an impact crater for a sea bed
I just can't seem to get out of my head and heart.

I've apprenticed my darkness to the mastery
of a dying art that might make the dead
a little more lyrically approachable
when the picture-music shepherds them
like black sheep born under a new moon
into the available dimensions of the future.

In everything I see and say and do here
I celebrate the emergence of the carrying forth
of the light out of the dark urgent with expression.

I say tree, stone, star, love, birth, death.

Lonely nightbird, or one of the frogs at night,
I make my sound like my mark upon life,
I add my eddy of light, the ripples of my fingerprints
to the flowing. As ignorant of where I come from
as I am of where I'm going, as homeless behind me
as it is ahead, there's an expiring calendar
of tree rings in my heartwood, waning or waxing,
always seems to be growing. What has my tongue
ever been, but a leaf on the wind, or my eyes,
if not stars coming out of clouds? Delusion
or clarity, the crazy wisdom of the madly enlightened,
or sorrow looking for asylum in its own vulnerability,
the lab rat in a random experiment with genetic lotteries,
or my voice disappear like the homing bird
of a word in the distance flying toward
the violet hills that adumbrate the sunset in residence?

A physics of the heart, or the logic of metaphor,
two ends of the same sky-borne telescope.
Whether they're eyelashes or my eyes
are sprouting wings for the journey ahead,
effortless effort of the absurd,
or a labour of elusive significance,
I struggle to celebrate the vital stillness
that animates the heart of all things
into being carried away on impulse
like water and love and life and light
or thousands of fireflies swarming the valley
after a storm of insight, trying to acquit themselves
like constellations in a chaos of starmaps.

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I Love To Wake Up With The Sunshine

I love to wake up with the sunshine
Shining in through my bedroon
Window everyday

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With The Love

She's vision
See
With me...

In my heart

Thousands of
Roses
Newely born's...

With the love..
FOR only me and she! !

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Dancing with the Wind

Dancing with the wind!
Your love is now exposed and you are very joyful;
But think of the days ahead,
For not all that glitters around you is made of gold.

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Quatrain #6 - With the breaking light of....

With the breaking light of the new dawn
may my love for You be wholly re-born.
And may it not wither or even fade away
like a fragrant flower that’s had its day.

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I Love You With The Feelings

I love you with the feelings,
the silent power
that comes from the depths
of the heart of a man

and although you life beyond the horizon,
in a world that is miles away,
thoughts bring you at times
to here close to me.

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With The Power Of Love

I did it with the power of your love,
I did it with the power of my love;
You did it with the power of your love,
You did it with the pwoer of my love;
And, we were satisfied with the power of love! !
For, it all occurred at the right time.

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In Love With The Drink

I remember her clear blue eyes;
Her hair sleek, raven black.
I remember her laugh, a tinkle of bells,
As we danced the night away.
I remember when we walked, joyous,
As if on moonbeams along the river hand in hand.
That was before she fell in love with the drink,
And out of love with me.

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