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Back To The Cameras

Think of my four years in prison,
Then i will tell you more about life;
Think of my problems around you,
Then i will tell you more about life;
For we are all in chains in this world!
But the wind blows to where it will.
I am now back to the cameras and,
You can still hear the noise of the wind! !
Yet still, no one knows where this wind comes from.

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No One Can Know Where A Poem Comes From

(After reading an essay by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks)

No one can know where a poem comes from
But like all we do in some deep and true way
Behind us there is a hint of God’s help
And this help is what sustains us
And makes us know
We are not forever alone
But always with us
The guardian angel
The single voice
The Great and Good
Loving God.

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Oh my sweet Jita!
Think of your four years in prison then,
Then you will still learn more about life.
Think of the problems around youtoday and,
Of your expereinces in the prison;
For we are all in chains in this world! !
But the wind blows to where it will and
No one knows where the wind comes from.

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You are all I need

You are my baby,
My husband,
You make my world go around,
You are all I need in this world to survive,
I love our family more than my life can depend on it,
I love my stepson,
I love my dad,
and I also love you baby,
You are all I need,
I don't need no other boo,
Who am I to tell anyone what to do,
Who am I to judge,
We are who we are,
and baby you mean the world to me,
I want us to be a family,
I am happy to be with you,
and I am glad we found each other,
You are my other half,
You have my heart and soul.

This is to my boyfriend/husband
Kevin Billiot.

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I wear my ray-bans, driving in the car
even on a cloudy day
she always says "Man!, who d'you think you are?"
'cause she don't see it my way
we are all sleepwalkers
we only see the things we wanna see
tunnel visions
and there's no end in sight
But after all we've been through
I know this much to be true
though I don't think like you do
don't you know that after all
all I really need is you
I have a game plan, but my love is in a jar
it don't come into play
she always says "Man!, no matter where we are,
you're always miles away!"
we are all sleepwalkers
we don't see nothing we don't wanna see
we dream in color
we paint each other black and white
Let's take one step at a time (at a time)
let's take each day as we find (as we find)
give me the chance to speak my mind
don't you know that after all
that's all I really need (to cross that line)
We give - the impression that all is well
trying to live - all of the lies we tell
we cry - when there's no one near
we don't know why - (there just ain't enough love)
in these alien years
But after all we've been through (all we've been through)
I know this much to be true (this much to be true)
though I don't think like you do
don't you know that after all
all I really need is you
Let's take one step at a time (at a time)
let's take each day as we find (as we find)
give me the chance to speak my mind
don't you know that after all
that's all I really need (to cross that line)
(we're only sleepwalkin' . . .)
I wear my ray-bans, driving in the car
on a cloudy day
the wheel in one hand, the other on my heart
I'm trying to see it her way
though we are all sleepwalkers
we only see the things we wanna see
I get the feeling
maybe there's an end in sight
(we're only sleepwalkin' .

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Return To Innocense

We shatter the myths that have passed down on our heads
we awaken now and make our new beds.
We follow our hearts more with each passing day
we get out of our heads and let our hearts lead the way.
We return to the innocence of a child
who questions the world, but with a smile.
Not the sinister grin of mistrust
but the perception of things as robust.
The flowers now sing and the birds light the sky
the clouds paint a picture and the geckos cry.
The plants bow down to you as you look up at them
they are all a part of this new planetary transformation.
The veil is lifting in the cosmic scheme
we have forgotten in this timing of things.
No business as usual which will bite you in the ass
you have to set new priorities if we are to have a chance.

Written By Christina Sunrise on March 6,2012

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Justice' Is What Shall End Our Strife

Hastily removed from my world was I indeed!
Little knowledge had I of your fall from truth,
When most needed of such- though it was deceit you did choose!
Wanton of belief, then truth is what you did need!

Have you gone through any of what you said?
Did you think about that as you wished me dead?
What of the girls and being for them an example! ?
Reason I have for revenge- yet love is still ample!

You have left yourself no choice at all,
How to recover your grace after the fall!
Call it an ultimatum, I would call it fate
From heightened paranoia, to again reality's state!

Without thought, you relegated the love of your life-
'Justice' is what shall end our strife!

Maurice Harris,16 April 2008

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Oh no one knows
How many dreams
I'm crying for you
Oh no one knows
How many dreams
I'm crying for you
I'm crying for you
Step by step
A way of life
Sorrow by happiness
Step by step
Hand by hand
To the lost Holyland
Oh no one knows
How many dreams
I'm crying for you
Oh no one knows
How many dreams
I'm crying for you
Oh no one knows
How many dreams
I'm crying for you
Oh no one knows
How many dreams
I'm crying for you

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As You Destroy Me

What you haven't done for me is a longer list than what you have
it hurts so bad but it's the sad truth
so as you destroy me, as you sit up in your 3 story beach house
remember that your home is filled with the anger, remorse, and regret of your mistakes
its insane to say or even explain your favoritism
though you think you don't have it
its a shame to say that because of the way you treated me i cried myself to sleep most nights thinking life isn't worth living
because you called me stupid, i will never graduate
because you never believed in me, i will never succeed
i used to think that deep down you had to love me because you created me
i used to believe you when you said you were teaching me right from wrong
but if you wanted to do that then you should have taught me to love my kids
does it ever cross your mind that the things you say bleed through my eyeballs constantly
do you ever stop to think 'its been 3 years maybe i could say i love you too'
it wont surprise me at all that when i make it big you'll be at my doorstep expecting half
but even after everything you put me through
i still want to buy that house you always wanted
i have to be a good person in order to succeed
and the only difference between you and i is when i said 'i love you' i meant it
as you sit in that lonely room in that lonely house i wonder if you repented
you taught me to never trust, to be afraid of love and be loved
you taught me nothing stays forever
you taught me wrong instead of right
you taught me how to be miserable
and though none of these are good things
What you have taught me is now equal to what you haven't
it hurts so bad but its the sad truth
so as you destroy me, as you sit in that 3 story beach house
remember that your home is filled with the anger, remorse, and regret of your mistakes
i knew from jump either my heart or yours wasn't in the right place
it just so happened that it wasn't mine in the wrong... but yours
and though i forgive you with all my heart and soul
i can never forget
because when you broke me someone else taught me what it felt like to be complete
TRUE, you destroyed me
but i guess now i can never be defeated.

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The World In The House

PILGRIMS who journey in the narrow way,
Should go as little cumbered as they may.
'Tis heavy sailing with a freighted ship ;
'Tis pleasant travelling with a staff and scrip.
Gold clogs the path, dispose it how we will ;
Makes it fatiguing as we climb the hill :
And 'tis but here and there you may descry
The camel passing through the needle's eye.

'Love not the world ;'--most merciful decree
That makes its friendship enmity to Thee !
Oh, if God had not said it,--did I know
Some way to bliss through luxury and show ;
Might I have followed Christ to heaven's door,
With gold and purple, in my coach and four ;
I dare not choose it--I would rather wait
A safer convoy at the rich man's gate.

See yonder modern mansion, light and fair,
Reared just beyond the taint of London air :
But not beyond, by many a dale and hill,
The taint of manners more unwholesome still.
Wide spreads in front the soft and sloping lawn,
With carriage roads in sweeping circles drawn :
The ample gardens, neat and well disposed,
Stretch far behind, by hectared walls enclosed ;
The shrubbery-walks in serpent windings run ;
The costly green-house blazes in the sun.
Rare fruits and flowers the gardener's skill employ,
More than the pampered owners can enjoy.
Within, a palace shines, superbly planned ;
No pains nor cost were spared to make it grand :
Our thrifty merchants, fifty years ago,
Nor thought nor dreamed of such a stately show.
The bloated master stalks delighted thence,
Proud of the thing, more proud of the expense.

Here dwells an old professor in his nest,
With comely wife and dashing daughters blest ;
They, fresh from school, with all the native graces
They once possessed, quite polished off their faces ;
A trifling, useless, unharmonious train,
Accomplished, artificial, showy, vain ;
In all they do and say, and look and wear,
Aping the rank they were not born to bear :
And she, his help-meet, ever in her pride,
Teasing and pleading on the worldly side ;--
Such is his household, such, perchance, that he
Would blush to ask the Apostle Paul to tea.
--Not that the show and fashion of the place,
Itself, could certify the want of grace ;
(Though bounds there are, so wise and safe to keep,
That watchful Christians rarely overleap
But 'tis his soul retains the earthly leaven,
Would fain keep terms and compromise with Heaven ;
Striving, with pain, in Zion's paths to plod,
But keeping Mammon for his household god.

Thus live our merchant and his hopeful train,
Bound to the world, nor would they break the chain.
Its laws they own, its stamp and image bear,
There lies their portion, and their hearts are there.
Where then appears the faith they yet profess ?--
Not in their looks, their language, or their dress ;
But some cold forms remain, and some restraints,
To keep their name and place among the saints.
They never dance ; they never play at cards ;
One day in seven he duly still regards :
That tasty chapel, twice on Sabbath day,
Sees him and his set out in fair array.
And much they praise--the ladies and their sire,
The favourite preacher whom they all admire ;
Some soft, and sleek, and seraph-spoken boy,
The rabble's wonder and the ladies' toy ;
Snatched immature from academic bowers,
To dress up truth in artificial flowers.
Besides, our fair professor's name behold,
On neat Esquired committee-lists enrolled,
And long subscription-rows, that bring to light
Name, place, donation, and the annual mite ;
Duly proclaiming every right hand deed,
Trusting the left has never learnt to read.
A little gold, a morning or a day,
Spent in the cause, he freely gives away :
Perhaps, his pious zeal may even reach
The neat dimensions of an annual speech,
Gliding in well-turned compliments along,
To every titled Christian in the throng.
The ladies too, his daughters, draw up rules
For lady-charities, and Sunday schools ;
Set down their names, their fair committees call ;
Busy and pleased, if they may manage all.
Meantime, the pious bustle, praised and told,
Has cost them nothing but their father's gold.

How customs and opinions change their place !
Religion, now, is scarcely in disgrace :
Her outward signs, at least, will even raise
Your credit high in these convenient days.
Fashion, herself, the cause of virtue pleads,
Becomes chief patroness of pious deeds,
And lets us e'en pursue, without restraint,
What once had stamped us puritan and saint.
The good is done,--let fashion bear her part,
And claim the praise, with all the Christian's heart
Motives are all in Heaven's impartial eye ;
But 'tis not ours to doubt and give the lie :
Let each grant credit to his neighbour's share,
But analyze his own with utmost care,--
That thus the scale is turned, the praise is due
To Him, who hears and owns the righteous few ;
Whose silent prayers and labours Heaven employs
To do the good, while others make the noise.

--'Tis trite to praise the country's green retreats,
Opposed to city smoke and noisy streets :
And scores of epithets, all ready strung,
That theme will furnish to be said or sung.
The limpid streamlet and the whispering breeze
Slip into rhyme with such spontaneous ease,
That he must be an humble scribe indeed,
Who could not write it--or who loves to read.
Trite though it be, it is a task I choose ;
A hackneyed theme befits an humble muse :
But leaving rills to ripple, woods to wave,
And birds to warble out the other stave,
I sing the choicest fruit of country air,
--The human plant that buds and blossoms there.

Happy the mother, who her train can rear
Far 'mid its breezy hills from year to year !
There healthful springs the body, and combined
With health, more precious, to the precious mind.
Not that there dwells a charm in country air,
Or chemic power, to bleach the Ethiop fair :
Romantic hope !--The poisonous breath of vice
Tainted the very airs of Paradise.
Sin spreads in every soil, in every gale ;
O'er-runs alike the mountain and the vale
But springs in cities, rank and noisome both,
Their foul and sultry vapour speeds its growth. '
Youth's sweetest grace, simplicity, is seen
Sporting with native smiles in meadows green,
In pleasant gardens, on the daisied ground,
Where simple joys, and few besides are found.
The knowing, forward, pert, and showy miss,
Springs rarely up in such a soil as this ;
For such a plant exotic, send us down
Some hot-house produce of the polished town.

The rage for competition, show, and style,
Is London's plague, and spreads for many a mile.
No rank, nor age, escapes that vulgar sin,
Breathed in its nurseries,--in its schools worked in :
And thus the mania, in maturer years,
In every form of pride and pomp appears,
As each were striving for a near approach--
Climax of grandeur !--to the lord mayor's coach.
--How short the triumph, many a prison cell,
And many a pining family could tell.--
The bridal equipage, in half a year
Brought to the hammer of the auctioneer,
Suffices not to liquidate the debt,
And fame's last bugle sounds in the Gazette.

Regions of intellect ! serenely fair,
Hence let us rise, and breathe your purer air.
--There shine the stars ! one intellectual glance
At that bright host,--on yon sublime expanse,
Might prove a cure ;--well, say they, let them shine
With all our hearts,--but let us dress and dine.

There are, above the petty influence placed,
By human science and a mental taste.
The man who feels the dignity of thought,
By culture much refined, by science taught,
To loved pursuits devoted, looks below,
With true contempt upon the paltry show :
Compared with those in pleasure's vortex hurled,
He loves it not, and lives above the world.

But happier he who views the toys of time
From loftier heights, from regions more sublime ;
Who walks with God while yet he sojourns here ;
His hopes still climbing to a brighter sphere.
--Is he of wealth and earthly good possessed ?
He takes Heaven's bounty with a cheerful zest.
His quarrel with the world you might not note
From texture, cut, or colour of his coat ;
For studied plainness, whether dress or speech,
Defeats the very end it aims to reach.
And yet, on all he has there stands imprest
One truth conspicuous--' This is not my rest.'--
From that divine remembrance ever springs
A moderated care for other things :
--Pilgrim and stranger in a desert spot,
He holds them all as though he held them not.

Peace, order, comfort, in his household reign ;
And more than these he seeks not to obtain.
His mansion, furnished in no costly style,
Oft makes his tasty neighbours stare and smile ;
But that unmoved and unavenged he bears,
Unless it be, sometimes, to smile at theirs.
His neat, plain parlour wants our modern air,
But comfort smiles on every object there.
--Tables of costly wood, and chairs whose mould
Bespeaks the fashion not a fortnight old,
The window drapery's elegant costume,
Arranged and deeply fringed to match the room,
Carpets, where eastern patterns richly crawl,
Vases, and mirrors blazing on the wall,
Cupids that wave their waxen flames in air,
Sideboards of plate, cut-glass, and china rare,--
These things he sees, and Oh ! surprising phlegm !
Wastes not a thought nor wish for one of them.
Still more surprising, that his house and board
Are plainer far than he could well afford !
No seasoned dainties on his table steal ;
Frugal, though ample, is the daily meal.
The 'olive plants' in graceful order sit ;
No greedy hands implore the savoury bit ;
Taught from the very cradle to despise
The wish for more than hunger's claim supplies.
A pampered body, and a vigorous mind,
Are things, he deems, that cannot be combined ;
And aiming thus the mental string to brace,
He rears a hardy, independent race.

His girls, a blooming train, their home adorn ;
Simply attired, and cheerful as the morn :
Industrious, active, frugal, like their sire ;
Trained to resist each frivolous desire ;
To scorn the trifles that the sex pursues,
And rise superior to its petty views.
Slightly accomplished, but their minds are fraught
With taste and knowledge, and inured to thought.
Year after year, four precious hours a day,
Is deemed by him too dear a price to pay
E'en for that art, which all the world reveres,
Up from the tradesman's daughter to the peer's.
Yet not with narrow, much mistaken view,
Would he deny them mental culture too ;
Though vulgar zealots love to state the case,
That human learning is a foe to grace ;
And rear their ill-bred, rude, illiterate youth,
To loathe their shackles, and despise the truth.

Religion here, in all her native grace,
Shines out serene in every heart and face ;
Nor e'er is banished, though pursuits may claim
Attention oft, that do not bear her name.
Thus he adorns the doctrine he avows ;
Thus in the fear of God, he guides his house.
And while it prospers, that memorial word,--
'The poor are always with you,' still is heard.
The hungry throng that crowd his open gate
Not there, like Lazarus, unregarded wait ;
Since each expensive pleasure is denied,
Which, while it starves the needy, pampers pride.
Many condemn his plan, and many deem
He carries things to an absurd extreme ;
Think he might live in style, and yet afford
A decent crum from his superfluous board :
--Still there were other poor, and still the sums
That style would cost might furnish other crums.
'Tis thus he argues, thus that order reads,
'Sell all thou hast, and give to him that needs.'
At that hard saying, many turn away ;
Let him who can, receive it, and obey.

Oh, for a soul magnanimous, to know,
Poor world, thy littleness, and let thee go !
Not with a gloomy, proud, ascetic mind,
That loves thee still, and only hates mankind ;
Reverse the line, and that my temper be,
--To love mankind, and pour contempt on thee!

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The Wind And The Whirlwind

I have a thing to say. But how to say it?
I have a cause to plead. But to what ears?
How shall I move a world by lamentation,
A world which heeded not a Nation's tears?

How shall I speak of justice to the aggressors,
Of right to Kings whose rights include all wrong,
Of truth to Statecraft, true but in deceiving,
Of peace to Prelates, pity to the Strong?

Where shall I find a hearing? In high places?
The voice of havock drowns the voice of good.
On the throne's steps? The elders of the nation
Rise in their ranks and call aloud for blood.

Where? In the street? Alas for the world's reason!
Not Peers not Priests alone this deed have done.
The clothes of those high Hebrews stoning Stephen
Were held by all of us,--ay every one.

Yet none the less I speak. Nay, here by Heaven
This task at least a poet best may do,
To stand alone against the mighty many,
To force a hearing for the weak and few.

Unthanked, unhonoured,--yet a task of glory,
Not in his day, but in an age more wise,
When those poor Chancellors have found their portion
And lie forgotten in their dust of lies.

And who shall say that this year's cause of freedom
Lost on the Nile has not as worthy proved
Of poet's hymning as the cause which Milton
Sang in his blindness or which Dante loved?

The fall of Guelph beneath the spears of Valois,
Freedom betrayed, the Ghibelline restored:
Have we not seen it, we who caused this anguish,
Exile and fear, proscription and the sword?

Or shall God less avenge in their wild valley
Where they lie slaughtered those poor sheep whose fold
In the grey twilight of our wrath we harried
To serve the worshippers of stocks and gold?

This fails. That finds its hour. This fights. That falters.
Greece is stamped out beneath a Wolseley's heels.
Or Egypt is avenged of her long mourning,
And hurls her Persians back to their own keels.

'Tis not alone the victor who is noble.
'Tis not alone the wise man who is wise.
There is a voice of sorrow in all shouting,
And shame pursues not only him who flies.

To fight and conquer: 'tis the boast of heroes.
To fight and fly: of this men do not speak.
Yet shall there come a day when men shall tremble
Rather than do misdeeds upon the weak,

A day when statesmen baffled in their daring
Shall rather fear to wield the sword in vain
Than to give back their charge to a hurt nation,
And own their frailties, and resign their reign,

A day of wrath when all fame shall remember
Of this year's work shall be the fall of one
Who, standing foremost in her paths of virtue,
Bent a fool's knee at War's red altar--stone,

And left all virtue beggared in his falling,
A sign to England of new griefs to come,
Her priest of peace who sold his creed for glory
And marched to carnage at the tuck of drum.

Therefore I fear not. Rather let this record
Stand of the past, ere God's revenge shall chase
From place to punishment His sad vicegerents
Of power on Earth.--I fling it in their face!

I have a thing to say. But how to say it?
Out of the East a twilight had been born.
It was not day. Yet the long night was waning,
And the spent nations watched it less forlorn.

Out of the silence of the joyless ages
A voice had spoken, such as the first bird
Speaks to the woods, before the morning wakens,
And the World starting to its feet had heard.

Men hailed it as a prophecy. Its utterance
Was in that tongue divine the Orient knew.
It spoke of hope. Men hailed it as a brother's.
It spoke of happiness. Men deemed it true.

There in the land of Death, where toil is cradled,
That tearful Nile, unknown to Liberty,
It spoke in passionate tones of human freedom,
And of those rights of Man which cannot die,

Till from the cavern of long fear, whose portals
Had backward rolled, and hardly yet aloud,
Men prisoned stole like ghosts and joined the chorus,
And chaunted trembling, each man in his shroud:

Justice and peace, the brotherhood of nations,
Love and goodwill of all mankind to man:
These were the words they caught and echoed strangely,
Deeming them portions of some Godlike plan,

A plan thus first to their own land imparted.
They did not know the irony of Fate,
The mockery of man's freedom, and the laughter
Which greets a brother's love from those that hate.

Oh for the beauty of hope's dreams! The childhood
Of that old land, long impotent in pain,
Cast off its slough of sorrow with its silence,
And laughed and shouted and grew new again.

And in the streets, where still the shade of Pharaoh
Stalked in his sons, the Mamelukian horde,
Youth greeted youth with words of exultation
And shook his chains and clutched as for a sword:

Student and merchant, Jew, and Copt, and Moslem,
All whose scarred backs had bent to the same rod,
Fired with one mighty thought, their feuds forgotten,
Stood hand in hand and praising the same God.

I have a thing to say. But how to say it?
As in the days of Moses in the land,
God sent a man of prayer before his people
To speak to Pharaoh, and to loose his hand.

Injustice, that hard step--mother of heroes,
Had taught him justice. Him the sight of pain
Moved unto anger, and the voice of weeping
Made his eyes weep as for a comrade slain.

A soldier in the bands of his proud masters
It was his lot to serve. But of his soul
None owned allegiance save the Lord of Armies.
No worship from his God's might him cajole.

Strict was his service. In the law of Heaven
He comfort took and patience under wrong.
And all men loved him for his heart unquailing,
And for the words of pity on his tongue.

Knowledge had come to him in the night--watches,
And strength with fasting, eloquence with prayer.
He stood a Judge from God before the strangers,
The one just man among his people there.

Strongly he spoke: ``Now, Heaven be our witness!
Egypt this day has risen from her sleep.
She has put off her mourning and her silence.
It was no law of God that she should weep.

``It was no law of God nor of the Nations
That in this land, alone of the fair Earth,
The hand that sowed should reap not of its labour,
The heart that grieved should profit not of mirth.

``How have we suffered at the hands of strangers,
Binding their sheaves, and harvesting their wrath!
Our service has been bitter, and our wages
Hunger and pain and nakedness and drouth.

``Which of them pitied us? Of all our princes,
Was there one Sultan listened to our cry?
Their palaces we built, their tombs, their temples.
What did they build but tombs for Liberty?

``To live in ignorance, to die by service,
To pay our tribute and our stripes receive:
This was the ransom of our toil in Eden,
This, and our one sad liberty--to grieve.

``We have had enough of strangers and of princes
Nursed on our knees and lords within our house.
The bread which they have eaten was our children's,
For them the feasting and the shame for us.

``The shadow of their palaces, fair dwellings
Built with our blood and kneaded with our tears,
Darkens the land with darkness of Gehennem,
The lust, the crime, the infamy of years.

``Did ye not hear it? From those muffled windows
A sound of women rises and of mirth.
These are our daughters--ay our sons--in prison,
Captives to shame with those who rule the Earth.

``The silent river, by those gardens lapping,
To--night receives its burden of new dead,
A man of age sent home with his lord's wages,
Stones to his feet, a grave--cloth to his head.

``Walls infamous in beauty, gardens fragrant
With rose and citron and the scent of blood.
God shall blot out the memory of all laughter,
Rather than leave you standing where you stood.

``We have had enough of princes and of strangers,
Slaves that were Sultans, eunuchs that were kings,
The shame of Sodom is on all their faces.
The curse of Cain pursues them, and it clings.

``Is there no virtue? See the pale Greek smiling.
Virtue for him is as a tale of old.
Which be his gods? The cent per cent in silver.
His God of gods? The world's creator, Gold.

``The Turk that plunders and the Frank that panders,
These are our lords who ply with lust and fraud.
The brothel and the winepress and the dancers
Are gifts unneeded in the lands of God.

``We need them not. We heed them not. Our faces
Are turned to a new Kebla, a new truth,
Proclaimed by the one God of all the nations
To save His people and renew their youth.

``A truth which is of knowledge and of reason;
Which teaches men to mourn no more and live;
Which tells them of things good as well as evil,
And gives what Liberty alone can give,

``The counsel to be strong, the will to conquer,
The love of all things just and kind and wise,
Freedom for slaves, fair rights for all as brothers,
The triumph of things true, the scorn of lies.

``O men, who are my brethren, my soul's kindred!
That which our fathers dreamed of as a dream,
The sun of peace, and justice, has arisen,
And God shall work in you His perfect scheme.

``The rulers of your Earth shall cease deceiving,
The men of usury shall fly your land.
Your princes shall be numbered with your servants,
And peace shall guide the sword in your right hand.

``You shall become a nation with the nations.
Lift up your voices, for the night is past.
Stretch forth your hands. The hands of the free peoples
Have beckoned you the youngest and the last.

``And in the brotherhood of Man reposing,
Joined to their hopes and nursed in their new day,
The anguish of the years shall be forgotten
And God, with these, shall wipe your tears away.''

I have a thing to say. But how to say it?
How shall I tell the mystery of guile,
The fraud that fought, the treason that disbanded,
The gold that slew the children of the Nile?

The ways of violence are hard to reckon,
And men of right grow feeble in their will,
And Virtue of her sons has been forsaken,
And men of peace have turned aside to kill.

How shall I speak of them, the priests of Baal,
The men who sowed the wind for their ill ends!
The reapers of the whirlwind in that harvest
Were all my countrymen, were some my friends.

Friends, countrymen and lovers of fair freedom,
Souls to whom still my soul laments and cries!
I would not tell the shame of your false dealings,
Save for the blood which clamours to the skies.

A curse on Statecraft, not on you, my Country!
The men you slew were not more foully slain
Than was your honour at their hands you trusted.
They died, you conquered,--both alike in vain.

Crimes find accomplices, and Murder weapons.
The ways of Statesmen are an easy road.
All swords are theirs, the noblest with the neediest.
And those who serve them best are men of good.

What need to blush, to trifle with dissembling?
A score of honest tongues anon shall swear.
Blood flows. The Senate's self shall spread its mantle
In the world's face, nor own a Caesar there.

``Silence! Who spoke?'' ``The voice of one disclosing
A truth untimely.'' ``With what right to speak?
Holds he the Queen's commission?'' ``No, God's only.''
A hundred hands shall smite him on the cheek.

The ``truth'' of Statesmen is the thing they publish,
Their ``falsehood'' the thing done they do not say,
Their ``honour'' what they win from the world's trouble,
Their ``shame'' the ``ay'' which reasons with their ``nay.''

Alas for Liberty, alas for Egypt!
What chance was yours in this ignoble strife?
Scorned and betrayed, dishonoured and rejected,
What was there left you but to fight for life?

The men of honour sold you to dishonour.
The men of truth betrayed you with a kiss.
Your strategy of love too soon outplotted,
What was there left you of your dreams but this?

You thought to win a world by your fair dealing,
To conquer freedom with no drop of blood.
This was your crime. The world knows no such reasoning.
It neither bore with you nor understood.

Your Pharaoh with his chariots and his dancers,
Him they could understand as of their kin.
He spoke in their own tongue and as their servant,
And owned no virtue they could call a sin.

They took him for his pleasure and their purpose.
They fashioned him as clay to their own pride.
His name they made a cudgel to your hurting,
His treachery a spear--point to your side.

They knew him, and they scorned him and upheld him.
They strengthened him with honours and with ships.
They used him as a shadow for seditions.
They stabbed you with the lying of his lips.

Sad Egypt! Since that night of misadventure
Which slew your first--born for your Pharaoh's crime,
No plague like this has God decreed against you,
No punishment of all foredoomed in Time.

I have a thing to say. Oh how to say it!
One summer morning, at the hour of prayer,
And in the face of Man and Man's high Maker,
The thunder of their cannon rent the air.

The flames of death were on you and destruction.
A hail of iron on your heads they poured.
You fought, you fell, you died until the sunset;
And then you fled forsaken of the Lord.

I care not if you fled. What men call courage
Is the least noble thing of which they boast.
Their victors always are great men of valour.
Find me the valour of the beaten host!

It may be you were cowards. Let them prove it,--
What matter? Were you women in the fight,
Your courage were the greater that a moment
You steeled your weakness in the cause of right.

Oh I would rather fly with the first craven
Who flung his arms away in your good cause,
Than head the hottest charge by England vaunted
In all the record of her unjust wars!

Poor sheep! they scattered you. Poor slaves! they bowed you.
You prayed for your dear lives with your mute hands.
They answered you with laughter and with shouting,
And slew you in your thousands on the sands.

They led you with arms bound to your betrayer:
His slaves, they said, recaptured for his will.
They bade him to take heart and fill his vengeance.
They gave him his lost sword that he might kill.

They filled for him his dungeons with your children.
They chartered him new gaolers from strange shores:
The Arnaout and the Cherkess for his minions,
Their soldiers for the sentries at his doors.

He plied you with the whip, the rope, the thumb--screw.
They plied you with the scourging of vain words.
He sent his slaves, his eunuchs, to insult you.
They sent you laughter on the lips of Lords.

They bound you to the pillar of their firmans.
They placed for sceptre in your hand a pen.
They cast lots for the garments of your treaties,
And brought you naked to the gaze of men.

They called on your High Priest for your death mandate.
They framed indictments on you from your laws.
For him men loved they offered a Barabbas.
They washed their hands and found you without cause.

They scoffed at you and pointed in derision,
Crowned with their thorns and nailed upon their tree.
And at your head their Pilate wrote the inscription:
``This is the land restored to Liberty!''

Oh insolence of strength! Oh boast of wisdom!
Oh poverty in all things truly wise!
Thinkest thou, England, God can be outwitted
For ever thus by him who sells and buys?

Thou sellest the sad nations to their ruin.
What hast thou bought? The child within the womb,
The son of him thou slayest to thy hurting,
Shall answer thee, ``An Empire for thy tomb.''

Thou hast joined house to house for thy perdition.
Thou hast done evil in the name of right.
Thou hast made bitter sweet and the sweet bitter,
And called light darkness and the darkness light.

Thou art become a by--word for dissembling,
A beacon to thy neighbours for all fraud.
Thy deeds of violence men count and reckon.
Who takes the sword shall perish by the sword.

Thou hast deserved men's hatred. They shall hate thee.
Thou hast deserved men's fear. Their fear shall kill.
Thou hast thy foot upon the weak. The weakest
With his bruised head shall strike thee on the heel.

Thou wentest to this Egypt for thy pleasure.
Thou shalt remain with her for thy sore pain.
Thou hast possessed her beauty. Thou wouldst leave her.
Nay. Thou shalt lie with her as thou hast lain.

She shall bring shame upon thy face with all men.
She shall disease thee with her grief and fear.
Thou shalt grow sick and feeble in her ruin.
Thou shalt repay her to the last sad tear.

Her kindred shall surround thee with strange clamours,
Dogging thy steps till thou shalt loathe their din.
The friends thou hast deceived shall watch in anger.
Thy children shall upbraid thee with thy sin.

All shall be counted thee a crime,--thy patience
With thy impatience. Thy best thought shall wound.
Thou shalt grow weary of thy work thus fashioned,
And walk in fear with eyes upon the ground.

The Empire thou didst build shall be divided.
Thou shalt be weighed in thine own balances
Of usury to peoples and to princes,
And be found wanting by the world and these.

They shall possess the lands by thee forsaken
And not regret thee. On their seas no more
Thy ships shall bear destruction to the nations,
Or thy guns thunder on a fenceless shore.

Thou hadst no pity in thy day of triumph.
These shall not pity thee. The world shall move
On its high course and leave thee to thy silence,
Scorned by the creatures that thou couldst not love.

Thy Empire shall be parted, and thy kingdom.
At thy own doors a kingdom shall arise,
Where freedom shall be preached and the wrong righted
Which thy unwisdom wrought in days unwise.

Truth yet shall triumph in a world of justice.
This is of faith. I swear it. East and west
The law of Man's progression shall accomplish
Even this last great marvel with the rest.

Thou wouldst not further it. Thou canst not hinder.
If thou shalt learn in time, thou yet shalt live.
But God shall ease thy hand of its dominion,
And give to these the rights thou wouldst not give.

The nations of the East have left their childhood.
Thou art grown old. Their manhood is to come;
And they shall carry on Earth's high tradition
Through the long ages when thy lips are dumb,

Till all shall be wrought out. O Lands of weeping,
Lands watered by the rivers of old Time,
Ganges and Indus and the streams of Eden,
Yours is the future of the world's sublime.

Yours was the fount of man's first inspiration,
The well of wisdom whence he earliest drew.
And yours shall be the flood--time of his reason,
The stream of strength which shall his strength renew.

The wisdom of the West is but a madness,
The fret of shallow waters in their bed.
Yours is the flow, the fulness of Man's patience
The ocean of God's rest inherited.

And thou too, Egypt, mourner of the nations,
Though thou hast died to--day in all men's sight,
And though upon thy cross with thieves thou hangest,
Yet shall thy wrong be justified in right.

'Twas meet one man should die for the whole people.
Thou wert the victim chosen to retrieve
The sorrows of the Earth with full deliverance.
And, as thou diest, these shall surely live.

Thy prophets have been scattered through the cities.
The seed of martyrdom thy sons have sown
Shall make of thee a glory and a witness
In all men's hearts held captive with thine own.

Thou shalt not be forsaken in thy children.
Thy righteous blood shall fructify the Earth.
The virtuous of all lands shall be thy kindred,
And death shall be to thee a better birth.

Therefore I do not grieve. Oh hear me, Egypt!
Even in death thou art not wholly dead.
And hear me, England! Nay. Thou needs must hear me.
I had a thing to say. And it is said.

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No One Knows The Way Out (A Poem Of One Mood-Despair)


Nothing goes well,
The world is turning upside down-
One after one
The terrible surprises-
On the verge
Of a new kind of hell,
All is ugly and frightening
And no one knows the way out.

The world is falling down
And Darkness is everywhere
The hungry lose their strength to cry out,
And cruelty is survival’s only friend-

All is going into Chaos
And mankind is at the edge
Of its own
Ultimate Abyss.

No hope, no help
Only suffering and more suffering
Pain without end
The only prayer,
for Death-
and that too does not come
soon enough.

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No One Knows Who With This Sits

How can anyone suspect,
An undetected resentment.
If one in secret keeps this protected.
Until those moments come to expose it.
To inflict and leave,
A venomous deed.

Deceit has been bred to feed,
Too long.
No one knows who slithers with it.
Before bitten.

No one knows who with this sits.
Keeping it hidden.
This should be forbidden,
But isn't!

How can anyone suspect,
An undetected resentment.
If one in secret keeps this protected.
Until those moments come to expose it.
To inflict and leave,
A venomous deed.

No one knows who with this sits.
Keeping it hidden.
This should be forbidden,
But isn't!

Deceit has been bred to feed,
Too long.
No one knows who slithers with it.
Before bitten.

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They Are All The Same

the silver fishes grouping
and scattering on the depths
of the dark blue sea

the white flapping wings of
birds within the circle of their
species, poised to fly far distances

the leaves falling from a tree to
the ground then blown by the
wind towards the desert and
the immeasurable mirages

oh, they are all the same
they are going somewhere
they are taken by what their
instincts and their hearts say

like us here, we are packing
we are always leaving so what
is the use of crying or even
laughing and merry making?

we are destined for some place
higher than this one
we are meant not for this or for
us but for some planes of
mystical existence that for
now we cannot really understand

prepare for that destiny
you do not have to carry a cent.

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The Story Of A Less Sexyful Politician (Or And All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt)

I took the raven out for a walk
I watched the mud turn to the stones
I taught each parrot nuances of talk
I brushed the uniforms of all the dead clones
I was strict and stern never meant to flirt
and all I got was this lousy shirt

I drove the sane to the insane
The peaceful to the rage of their bones
I served my best but it was all in vain
For neither the social nor the lones
Paid any tribute now I feel hurt
'cause all I got was this lousy shirt

Will someone try to figure out explain
The causes dragged to the edge of effects
Will someone say why memory selects
The most hideous of all the refrains
The least profitable of all the gains

Even the poorest boy's got his breeches
The most stupid dwells in world's riches
Even the ugliest girls got skirts
and all I got was this lousy shirt

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Know one Knows

Know one knows why am I here,
To be place on this earth,
Where I truly don't belong,
Know one knows me,
Think you know me,
You don't,
Everyday is a hearchache,
From School, to house, to my friends,
Everywhere I go,
I get heartaches,
Know one knows what I feel,
I feel as if time is drifting away from me,
Choking on water,
Here I go again,
Thinking why should I die,
Ready to die,
Ready to leave this place,
This shallow place I don't want to follow,
You built me up,
You break me down,
Here I go again,
Thinking what to choke on,
Ready to die,
Know one knows my thoughts or the true me,
Falling asleep,
The dream that never ends,
The thin line I crossed,
Save me,
From this place,
What would you say if I left this agony place,
Know one knows why I feel this way,
Don't question my thoughts,
Just let me DIE.

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The Ten Stars

In the motion of the universe,
The rotation of planets,
The conjuction of the wind,
There my sight witnesses,
The opposition of stars
Rare but wonderfully made

I count the stars and make my wish,
My summit shall i reach,
With her in poverty i'm rich
Im a happy man,
I saw ten stars

Star number one,
Besides you let there be none,
Star number two,
To love you more, never a few,
Star number three,
My love unto you for free
Star number four,
The love we built to never fall,
Star number five,
Wish all things but mostly life
How wonderful are they, ten stars

In this lonely night my heart beats faster,
I make wishes, but they are not my master,
I point the stars and make wishes,
How beautiful are they, ten stars

Star number six,
So shall our foes fall by the axe
Star number seven,
Against all odds we remain even
Star number eight,
We shall so grow above heights,
Star number nine,
Of course, , to remain mine
Star number ten
I wish to make hundred wishes per day
How beautiful are they, ten stars

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All Around The World Or The Myth Of Fingerprints

Over the mountain
Down in the valley
Lives a former talk-show host
Everybody knows his name
He says theres no doubt about it
It was the myth of fingerprints
Ive seen them all and man
Theyre all the same
Well, the sun gets weary
And the sun goes down
Ever since the watermelon
And the lights come up
On the black pit town
Somebody says whats a better thing to do
Well, its not just me
And its not just you
This is all around the world
Out in the indian ocean somewhere
Theres a former army post
Abandoned now just like the war
And theres no doubt about it
It was the myth of fingerprints
Thats what that old army post was for
Well, the sun gets bloody
And the sun goes down
Ever since the watermelon
And the lights come up
On the black pit town
Somebody says whats a better thing to do
Well, its not just me
And its not just you
This is all around the world
Over the mountain
Down in the valley
Lives the former talk-show host
Far and wide his name was known
He said theres no doubt about it
It was the myth of fingerprints
Thats why we must learn to live alone

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Why At All I Came To This Earth

Why at all I came to this earth
It must be two years now
Since I am with you all
I really could not make out
How far my parents were happy
On my arrival
I knew I did not get many things
Which I wanted, rather needed
For a total growth
And emotional support
I started noting that
My parents did not like each other
Often they argued on matters
Which were beyond my perception
They too were running short
Of many things, probably
I have two elder sisters
From their talking
I came to know that
Our family was in great trouble
One evening my mom took me from home
And for the first time
We were travelling in a vehicle
Rushing us to a new place
My mom left me with some one
And that some one handed over me
To some other one
Thus I kept on moving from hands to hands
Leaving me to wonder
Where this changing hands will stop
I was a bit comfortable with the
Little girl, the last lap,
Who really attended to my needs
Better than even what my mom did
But some where some thing happened
I started feeling pain on my head
Which persisted and kept on increasing
I could not talk about this
But, cried, cried and cried
The little girl attempted to comfort me
But, it did not relieve my pain
The girl became angry with me
And started beating me
I could not register what went on further
I was in a new environment
Definitely much cleaner and better
Than any of the places I lived so far
All in white
People were attending to me
And giving me what all
They feel I needed
But, here I could not move
All the time in bed
I used to think how nice it will be
If I could spend all my time like this
Things did not happen that way, though
As I could see myself from the above
All these people in white
Keeping busy around me in the bed
I tried to tell them
See, here up, I am very much here
I know, this is death
As my elder sisters told me
You will go up and up
To God's caring hands
Once you die
I am going to Him is what
I understood
But then, tell me
Why at all I came to this earth

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Who Do You Think You Are? (song)

Are you leading off the final bend
Are you at the front of every trend
Are you every girl and every boy
Are you melody or just white noise

Are you on the brink of everest
Do you ever know what you'll do next
Is the sand of time at your command
Have you got the whole world in your hand

Who do you think you are...

Che guevara's dream
An island in the stream
Anything but what you seem
The rising sun, a falling sword
A minor twitch, a winter storm
A long forgotten face
Down a country lane
A haunted sense of loss
or blood upon the cross

Are you falling down or standing fast
Are you moving on or in the past
Does the summer sun shine down on you
Would you shoot yourself to make the news

Are you dancing on the golden gate
Are you thinking that it's getting late
Has your broken heart broke down again
Is tomorrow hanging in the rain

Who do you think you are?
Who do you think you are?
Who do you think you are?
Who do you think you are?

Christ's imagined son
Or Einstein on the run
The man with the golden gun
The apple of your mother's eye
A quick hello, a long goodbye
An arrow flying true
Through your mind at you
An itch that can't be fixed
Or dust upon the wind

Do you tell your stories to the night
Are you underneath that old street light
Are you wishing you were back there still
Every road you take becomes a hill

Are you on a roll or in a jam
Do your friends all tell you you're the man
Are you satisfaction guaranteed
Are you glory bound or history

Who do you think you are...

Judgement coming down
The next train out of town
The man with the plastic crown
An astronaut trapped in the trees
A burning bush, a swarm of bees
The truth that ties your tongue
Robin hood unsung
this temporary flight
A shadow in the night

And you're thinking this is all there is
And that all we cherish vanishes
You're the only one who's been betrayed
By the promises that youth once made

So you cut your losses, start again
And just pick a card, they're all the same
Walk the extra mile though no one knows
Or, just turn and say, that's how it goes?

Who do you think you are?
Who do you think you are?
Who do you think you are?
Who do I think I am...

24 9 2112

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To The Author(s) Of Manimekhalai

'Apart from its popular conception of transmigration, (which is) sometimes almost humouristic, Manimekhalai offers a documentary contribution of immense value, under an easily accessible form, on the philosophical speculations of Ancient India. The cosmology of Sankya, the scientism of Vaisheshika, the logic of Nyaya, the materialism of Lokayata, originally related to the Ajivika tradition, (all of) which re-appeared with force in the Dravidian world following the Saivite renewal a little before the beginning of the Christian era. The(se) concepts which had little by little, during the course of centuries, influenced the Vedic tradition manifested themselves with force from then on in an autonomous way and went on to give birth to the philosophy of Mediaeval India.'
(From Alain Danielou's 'Preface' in his and T. V. Gopala Iyer's Manimékhalai)

To some the interest is in the reading hearing singing
To others in the Buddhist faith that moved the begetter(s)
To most the wondrous-unwonders of the story
born in the Cilappatikaram
To a few in the monstrous bending of the verse in
To all time to parse in tongue-grinding heady rhymes
initial rhymes
rigourous unsyntactic ellipses
double syllabic feet
four to the line
the exceptions in three
all a mnemonic scaffolding of repetitive sound

For yet others after Catanar's warehouses in Puhar were long empty
the task of interpretation arose
Some sought to impute his motives to caste-enhancing kingly favours
Some as Aravana Atigal's hagiographer
Some as a bodhisattva-feat acquirer
Some as the anthologiser of myth and tradition
Some as the poet-laureate of a people's ancient lore
Some as a collective grass-roots inspirational catalyser
Some as the hindu kings' proselytiser
Some as a patron of a ghost-writer
Some perhaps as the first ecstatic copyist
Some who knows as an unrepenting plagiarist

Who should care after all these years
Who wrote what and why
no image rests of him
nor the jetties and godowns of the Cola entrepôt
nor whether some Yavana read to him
during the long monsoonal wait back for Rome
the feisty encounters of a Ulysses
or the airy goings and comings of the Olympian pantheon
nor whether he cared to listen
being full of a pride of his own

To have written is to leave but a mark
nothing stands for the proud rhyming syllables
more than his acquired business acumen
a Vaishya karmic hope

Now we stand aghast before this edifying monument
and verily wonder at some man
who may have in gusting wind and blasting brine
clung to his loincloth on the scaffolding
his knotted hair thick with the chimes of the Colamandala tide
the bells from Mahabalipuram to Chidamparam tolling in his veins
his sinewy rhyming muscles pulsing to the chiselling of reliefs
in memory of Kannaki and Matavi
and the liana apsara Manimekalai
in her forbidding expunging of her caste courtesan rôle
the lethal unmaking of an infatuated prince

Tied then to the creaking wooden framework
left by Ilango Adigal's epic-making epic
his stomach heaving
the low burning wicker lamp stinging his nostrils
in the stilled small hours
his eyes hardly following the olai leaf of his beaten memory
night after sleepless night
his merchant's paunch and eyes sagging
wife and mistresses in unrequited rut
while in tryst forlorn
one thought lingering under the tree in Bodhgaya
lamenting for the disciple's offering of trichinosis
he lets the dawn creep into his ears
with the kuyil's ironically teasing call
the fingertips charred with lampblack
till loaded cartwheels grind on the gravel of his spent dreams

It is easy for us now to quibble over him
and make much of when he may have conceived his poem
for at least in so doing he comes alive
only to be killed revived chided praised drowned in words
more than he has bequeathed us

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