Move dem golden teeth and toes you vagabonds, heathen, und tamarind fiends! For Eye dwell as a heron in my tranquil swamp of lunacy. Mine sprouting heart wrapped on a leaf is heard from the ochre frogs announcing rowdy, the endlessly chant the solar dance within my flowering belly, leafless chest, and muddy feet.
And thus we shall as one be scorched by the breath of the sun.
Pleure de joie, jasmine tasting dewdrops in these swamps.
Moonlit persimmon dweller of mine leafless branches has it seen.
“Sans toi, les émotions d’aujourd hui ne seraient que la peau morte des émotions d’autrefois”
— "Without you, today’s emotions will only be the dead skin of yesterday’s emotions"
Must be a garment Eye may tear of mine own skin.
SAID A SHEET of snow-white paper, “Pure was I created and pure will I remain for ever. I would rather be burnt and turn to white ashes than suffer darkness to touch me or the unclean to come near me.”
The ink-bottle heard what the paper was saying, and it laughed in its dark heart; but it never dared to approach her.
And the multicolored pencils heard her also, and they too never came near her.
And the snow-white sheet of paper did remain pure and chaste for ever - pure and chaste - and empty.
From The Forerunner by Khalil Gibran
I think that we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid.