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Quotes about jasmine

Hindu Wedding On A Jasmine Day

The season of JASMINE is blooming.
Wedding is on a day of JASMINE.
The couple are ready for the holy-bond.
Guests are ready with their blessing-band.

Baskets of garlands and stringed JASMINE,
With decorative JASMINE tassles is pleasing.
The fragrance of JASMINE is ambrosial!
Breathtaking! JASMINES' aroma is celestial.

Her long plait padded with JASMINES strung,
Atop with strands of JASMINE being swung,
The bride is given a garland of JASMINE.
Also the 'groom is given a garland of JASMINE.

The family deity is adorned with JASMINE.
The guests are given strands of JASMINE.
The couple garland each other in heck.
The 'groom ties an yellow thread around bride's neck.

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Summer Breeze

See the curtains hanging in the window
In the evening on a Friday night
A little light shining through the window
Lets me know that everything's alright
Summer breeze, well it makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through my, makes me feel it right
Making me feel, making me feel fine
Makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Oh sweet days of summer, the jasmine's in bloom
July is dressed up and playing her tune
And when I come home from a hard day's work
And you're waiting there, yes you're waiting there
Without A care in the world
I see the smile awaiting in the kitchen
Food's cooking and a place there for two
I see the arms that reach out to hold me
In the evening when the day is through

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1. Sisterly Love

the indian woman is
a tormented soul
weeping secret tears
ink that writes lines
of anguish all over
her countenance

her large, sharp and slit eyes
pour longingly into the
the jasmine she strings
everyday for hours
in india street

pure, white, dainty
a softness and scent
that two days from now
will be nothing more than
a dehydrated mess
a mere sore to the eyes

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Grey(A Sad Tale)

I tell a tale I know not, of a dame I knew not, whom like me they know not, in an age we were known not.
It was many, many a year ago that a young lass lived whom ye may know by the name of Jasmine Désolé. She lived with no other thought but to love and be loved in return. Sadly, this was not the case of her life, nor the purpose of her miserable existence. Though at the time she thought she was born by love to love and be loved. In no time, a cynic emerged as life viewed through a prism reflected an iridescence of ugly greys. In a kingdom called MIND, she was queen and king the same, the world was mean, her mind kinder. So for the rest of her days she lived in her head. She had no friends. And though a beauty, no lover. Her first kiss opened her to an array of creatures called MEN. But as each frog turned into a prince, they fled the scene as with the speed of lightning being chased by sound. Jasmine was opened and welcomed to a palace called SADNESS whose chef was named DEPRESSION. She ate and ate and in no time, she was robust and drowning in a river anciently known as LONELINESS. Time built her a tunnel and all her massively wrong choices shut its door. Sitting on the floor sobbing quietly to her maker many, many a year before this year, Jasmine pondered on why life was so meaningless to her and why at no point had the lines fallen unto her in pleasant places. She felt like a fish outside water; death being water and life the shore. It marked the beginning of ten or most likely more attempts to exit earth. After each attempt she dusted her feet and saw life as a rainbow. In few months, the novelty wore off and life went back to normal - grey. She ran from home when she fell short of their expectation to a land in which she knew no one nor anyone her and when she finally returned home to a family with adjusted expectations, she ran again to a different land with the same tale. Sadness had filled her soul and her eyes were the only window of escape.
If you ever see Jasmine Désolé in the world unnamed, you will know her by her big large brown eyes which bookmark sorrow. These eyes once browsed across a threnody by a great poet and rained heavily at the words:
'Was there no star that could be sent,
No watcher in the firmament,
No angel from the countless host
That loiters round the crystal coast,
Could stoop to heal that only child'. She had the heart of a child and often wondered why God had never stooped to help her. On this one fateful day however, she sat on her balcony, stared into her past and all she had ever been. She thought for hours. Then drugged herself to kick the bucket. And for the next five days, the bucket lay stone cold. Her mum held her cold feet as she lay motionless on the hospital bed and with a hundred teardrops prayed. Two thousand hands of a thousand angels tried to resuscitate her. Four thousand teardrops of the thousand angels kept her body warm. On the fifth day she came back to life with the breath of God and a phrase that said: 'This isn't everything you are.'
Days and months and years went by, all acquaintances had become strangers, 'possibilities' made nothing. And on one busy day, noise gave way to silence as she declared 'I DO NOT BELIEVE IN GOD'. An extremist by all makings she was, as she swung from full faith in God to utter disbelief in his ability. God had smiled but frayed her days. She was a light to others but knew it not, the light she shone on others cast a shadow on her own life. If tears were a trophy she'd have a fountain. If life were a choice, she'd choose death over and over again. Nothing worked nor made sense. She wished she knew, at any point knew, how life should be lived. She sought not love anymore, neither knew how to. Aches and pains and loneliness and regrets and all her baggages transmogrified into one giant molten scar known as her. No more hopes, no more dreams. She strolled through earth, to fulfill her days, having but one hope and one only. That one day in her walk through the world, she'd stumble into a garden that was bursting into life. On her tombstone it was written: 'One thing lingers, love remains love. And if ever you're unsure, just remember, God remains God'. As all whose lives her light had touched gathered in their thousands, it rained and poured. All stood still and cried and poured. Tears and rain, her journey's tale. Many and many a time had she walked in the rain and cried with it. She loved rain, she loved God, she loved...
I write a tale I know not, of a dame who knew me not, whom like me they know not, in an age we are not known.
It was many, many a year ago that a young lass lived whom ye may know by the name of Jasmine Désolé. 

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A Flower To Auroville Mother-35

Yellow Jasmine, (Italian Jasmine,
Jasminum humile)

Atlast, I've found her
Long-lasting fragrant
Pentapetaled brighter
A Jasmine so anticipant

Yellowy, godly rewarding
Daughter of Himalayas
Willowy angularly branching
Shrubby with pinnate leaves

A Jasmine so anticipant
Of respect and worship
Inviting charm and scent
Medicative sure a godship

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George Meredith

Love in the Valley

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,
Couched with her arms behind her golden head,
Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,
Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.
Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,
Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,
Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:
Then would she hold me and never let me go?

Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,
Swift as the swallow along the river's light
Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets,
Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,
Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,
Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,
Tying up her laces, looping up her hair,

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Not Fitting In Despite All Those Years

sometimes you envy
the monk in maroon peacefully
crossing the street
somewhere in Ho Chi Minh

or even an earthen bowl half-filled with water
with a jasmine flower floating
upon a very still world

you like to take the brush and some water colors
to paint all these

but it is a little crowded world you have there
there is simply no time for wasting
it's a fast paced lifestyle

the lifelessness of the to and fro
the unstoppable flow
trying to accomplish almost everything
without meaning.

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I will love myself first

I am a flower
With a set of eight long petals
Shaped a bit long oval
Coloured sky-blue at the bottom
Turning bright-yellow at the top
And with long pollen sticks
White-headed peeping well out

I am an attraction to
Butterflies which keep probing
Me for the sweet nectar

I too attract insects
Very small in size
And which enjoy sliding into me
Along the slope of my petal

I hold for you a mild scent
That resembles the smell of jasmine
But because of the high ethanol content

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Perfect Lie/ You Are Loved The Way You Are

Stand in front of the mirror
Either boys or girls, some got depression
Try to find yourself underneath the reflection
Dissect each point, seek for perfection
Dreaming of perfection, adore some corrections

Never know the word of satisfy
Already beautiful but admire to modify
Don't you know who really you are?
You are loved by the way you are

Most of us rather see what appeared outside
always forgot to evaluate what lies inside
Most of us deceived by the open eyesight
always fooled because blinded heart-sight

Perfection makes everyone affected
Perfect one is what you wanted
Perfect lie is what you invented
Perfect word only a word that human created

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Khalil Gibran

The Beauty of Death XIV

Part One - The Calling


Let me sleep, for my soul is intoxicated with love and
Let me rest, for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights;
Light the candles and burn the incense around my bed, and
Scatter leaves of jasmine and roses over my body;
Embalm my hair with frankincense and sprinkle my feet with perfume,
And read what the hand of Death has written on my forehead.


Let me rest in the arms of Slumber, for my open eyes are tired;
Let the silver-stringed lyre quiver and soothe my spirit;
Weave from the harp and lute a veil around my withering heart.


Sing of the past as you behold the dawn of hope in my eyes, for
It's magic meaning is a soft bed upon which my heart rests.

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