A Dream Within A Dream - Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow 
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surftormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand 
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

The Haunted Palace - Edgar Allan Poe

In the greenest of our valleys 

   By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace- 

   Radiant palace reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought's dominion- 

   It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 

   Over fabric half so fair! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

   On its roof did float and flow, 

(This- all this- was in the olden 

   Time long ago,) 

And every gentle air that dallied, 

   In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

   A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

   Through two luminous windows, saw 

Spirits moving musically, 

   To a lute's well-tuned law, 

Round about a throne where, sitting 

 In state his glory well-befitting, 

   The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

   Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

   And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

   Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

   The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

   Assailed the monarch's high estate. 

(Ah, let us mourn! for never morrow 

   Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 

And round about his home the glory 

   That blushed and bloomed, 

Is but a dim remembered story 

   Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers, now, within that valley, 

   Through the red-litten windows see 

Vast forms, that move fantastically 

   To a discordant melody, 

While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

   Through the pale door 

A hideous throng rush out forever 

   And laugh but smile no more. 

“Caminho eternamente por essas praias, Entre a areia e 

espuma. A maré alta apagará minha pegadas, E o vento 

soprará a espuma. Porém o mar e a praia permanecerão 

eternamente.” 

Gibran

A gift of love - Rumi

The mening of love - Rumi

Only Breath - Rumi

Now is time to know - Hafiz

Seguindo Contigo - Tagore

Ao meu Senhor - Tagore

I was dead I came alive - Rumi

Light - Tagore

Hafiz - I saw two birds

A missão do amor eternamente

De espírito livre inda e somente,

Teu perfil meu coração distingue;

O teu inteiro ser unicamente:

O olhar, sorriso que não se extingue!

Doce o pranto que tuas mãos secou

No álveo que o corpo se estendeu,

Em versos que o amor eternizou!

Teu modo de falar, teu tom cravou

Com a cruz em meu fúnebre leito

A missão do amor eternamente

Lavrado em lágrimas no meu peito.

Meu espírito jungido ao teu, sempre,

Partiu em júbilo divinal, dentre

Hosana ao Mestre em eterno preito!

Espírito anônimo
Hsabbadini

Pirapanema, Nov. 26 2013

"Poesia é quando sentimentos profundos
Constantemente muito sérios e obtusos
se divertem loucamente com as palavras...
Desatarraxando da alma os parafusos!"

HSabbadini

Relógios quebrados marcando horas que se movem...

Aperta-se o crânio; apenas inextricáveis lembranças

Lançando-me atrás e além, das fronteiras dos séculos;

Risos, perfumes, abraços, ora velhos, ora crianças,

Conviventes num tempo sem portas; apenas pêndulos

De relógios quebrados, marcando horas que se movem,

Estranhamente, registrando eventos que jamais morrem.

Reavivam-se sentimentos que ontem foram esperanças,

Morro mil vezes na cadência das horas, vidas em pulos

Quânticos, distantes e tão pertos, denudando outras crenças!

Poder, ouro, devoção convivem com sentimentos chulos...

E os relógios quebrados, marcam horas que se movem,

Estranhamente, registrando eventos que jamais morrem.

Ardem-me o sol da Assíria e o magma do Vesúvio. Tranças,

Ornamentos, tiaras patrícias, subitamente são quebrados elos;

A jogarem-me do santuário de Ísis à fome, à nudez e à disgra em jaças...

A insurgir de relógios quebrados, marcando horas que se movem,

Estranhamente, registrando eventos que jamais morrem.

Na colossal andança cósmica que me arrebenta o crânio, traças

Corroem-me as suntuosas vestes no túmulo solitário; ainda ei-los

A guardarem-me o último berço em vitrine fria sob suas faces chanças

E olhos curiosos, enquanto minhas lagrimas respingam pós...

São os relógios quebrados a marcarem horas que se movem,

Estranhamente, registrando eventos que jamais morrem.

Sangue, fogo, de tudo hei provado, mas jamais de tuas louçãs

Mãos um abraço; nunca mais de teus lábios os antigos ósculos.

Jazo morta em vida, pois vida só soube contigo! Tuas carícias nunca vãs,

Eternas arrojam minh'alma em duro exílio a buscar-te pelos séculos!

Assim vivo; fitando...

Os relógios quebrados, marcando horas que se movem,

Estranhamente, registrando eventos que jamais morrem.

HSabbadini

Pirapanema, 21 de novembro, 2013

“Aprendi o silêncio com os faladores, a tolerância com os intolerantes, a bondade com os maldosos; e, por estranho que pareça, sou grato a esses professores."

Khalil Gibran

A Mulher Inspiradora

Mulher, não és só obra de Deus; 

os homens vão-te criando eternamente 

com a formosura dos seus corações, 

e os seus anseios 

vestiram de glória a tua juventude. 

Por ti o poeta vai tecendo 

a sua imaginária tela de oiro: 

o pintor dá às tuas formas, 

dia após dia, 

nova imortalidade. 

Para te adornar, para te vestir, 

para tornar-te mais preciosa, 

o mar traz as suas pérolas, 

a terra o seu oiro, 

sua flor os jardins do Verão. 

Mulher, és meio mulher, 

meio sonho. 

Rabindranath Tagore,

 in "O Coração da Primavera" 

My Friend

Art thou abroad on this stormy night 

on thy journey of love, my friend? 

The sky groans like one in despair. 

I have no sleep tonight. 

Ever and again I open my door and look out on 

the darkness, my friend! 

I can see nothing before me. 

I wonder where lies thy path! 

By what dim shore of the ink-black river, 

by what far edge of the frowning forest, 

through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading 

thy course to come to me, my friend? 

Rabindranath Tagore

This we have now

This we have now is not imagination.

This is not

grief or joy.

Not a judging state,

or an elation,

or sadness.

Those come

and go.

This is the presence

that doesn’t.

It's dawn, Husam,

here in the splendor of coral,

inside the Friend, the simple truth

of what Hallaj said.

What else could human beings want?

When grapes turn to wine,

they’re wanting

this.

When the nightsky pours by,

it’s really a crowd of beggars,

and they all want some of this!

This

that we are now

created the body, cell by cell,

like bees building a honeycomb.

The human body and the universe

grew from this, not this

from the universe and the human body. Rumi

Say I am You

I am dust particles in sunlight. I am the round sun.

To the bits of dust I say, Stay.

To the sun, Keep moving.

I am morning mist,

and the breathing of evening.

I am wind in the top of a grove,

and surf on the cliff.

Mast, rudder, helmsman, and keel,

I am also the coral reef they founder on.

I am a tree with a trained parrot in its branches.

Silence, thought, and voice.

The musical air coming through a flute,

a spark of a stone, a flickering

in metal. Both candle,

and the moth crazy around it.

Rose, and the nightingale

lost in the fragrance.

I am all orders of being, the circling galaxy,

the evolutionary intelligence, the lift,

and the falling away. What is,

and what isn’t. You who know

Jelaluddin, You the one

in all, say who

I am. Say I

am You. Rumi

ONLY BREATH

	Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu,
	Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion
	or cultural system. I am not from the East
	or the West, not out of the ocean or up
	from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
	composed of elements at all. I do not exist,
	am not an entity in this world or the next,
	did not descend from Adam or Eve or any
	origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
	of the traceless. Neither body or soul.
	I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
	worlds as one and that one call to and know,
	first, last, outer, inner, only that
	breath breathing human being. Rumi

Abode of the Beloved

Oh Companion That Abode Is Unmatched, 

Where My Complete Beloved Is. 

In that Place There Is No Happiness or Unhappiness,
No Truth or Untruth
Neither Sin Nor Virtue.
There Is No Day or Night, No Moon or Sun,
There Is Radiance Without Light.

There Is No Knowledge or Meditation
No Repetition of Mantra or Austerities,
Neither Speech Coming From Vedas or Books.
Doing, Not-Doing, Holding, Leaving
All These Are All Lost Too In This Place.

No Home, No Homeless, Neither Outside or Inside,
Micro and Macrocosm Are Non-Existent.
Five Elemental Constituents and the Trinity Are Both Not There
Witnessing Un-struck Shabad Sound is Also Not There.

No Root or Flower, Neither Branch or Seed,
Without a Tree Fruits are Adorning,
Primordial Om Sound, Breath-Synchronized Soham,
This and That - All Are Absent, The Breath Too Unknown

Where the Beloved Is There is Utterly Nothing
Says Kabir I Have Come To Realize.
Whoever Sees My Indicative Sign
Will Accomplish the Goal of Liberation. 

Kabir

Noite, silêncio, folhas imóveis;

imóvel o meu pensamento.

Onde estás, tu que me ofereceste a taça?

Hoje caiu a primeira pétala.

Eu sei, uma rosa não murcha

perto de quem tu agora sacias a sede;

mas sentes a falta do prazer que eu soube te dar,

e que te fez desfalecer.

Acorda... e olha como o sol em seu regresso

vai apagando as estrelas do campo da noite;

do mesmo modo ele vai desvanecer

as grandes luzes da soberba torre do Sultão. 

Omar Khayyam

"The secrets eternal neither you know nor I

And answers to the riddle neither you know nor I

Behind the veil there is much talk about us, why

When the veil falls, neither you remain nor I."

Omar Khayyam

"The caravan of life shall always pass

Beware that is fresh as sweet young grass

Let’s not worry about what tomorrow will amass

Fill my cup again, this night will pass, alas."

Omar Khayyam

"O beautiful wine-bearer, bring forth the cup and put it to my lips

Path of love seemed easy at first, what came was many hardships.

With its perfume, the morning breeze unlocks those beautiful locks

The curl of those dark ringlets, many hearts to shreds strips.

In the house of my Beloved, how can I enjoy the feast

Since the church bells call the call that for pilgrimage equips.

With wine color your robe, one of the old Magi’s best tips

Trust in this traveler’s tips, who knows of many paths and trips.

The dark midnight, fearful waves, and the tempestuous whirlpool

How can he know of our state, while ports house his unladen ships.

I followed my own path of love, and now I am in bad repute

How can a secret remain veiled, if from every tongue it drips?

If His presence you seek, Hafiz, then why yourself eclipse?

Stick to the One you know, let go of imaginary trips."

 Hafiz