fights many darknesses inside of him. He shouldn’t, nevertheless, ignore that luminous core that stays awake in a secluded retreat of his loneliness, the core of his humanity. There, lies a tender child with untrained eyes. A child, who comes here to live, not to die. Who knows not of evil, who is thirsty for light, who turns and looks at us carrying the question and the curiosity. It is a sweet child, a dawning. It will be a great pity to amputate this child, to deform it, to kill it. We should teach it that man is created for great things, that he is not the congenital murderer. To teach it the supreme lesson of dignity, to enforce it with the power of clemency and love, this unbreakable, uncracked power. To say to it, that we have fallen into big mistakes and we paid very dearly for them and no more will we fall again into the same mistakes....
falcon, the poor nightingale. My life is in your grasp, as is this flight of ours amidst the clouds, where I had never reached. But listen to me:.......
........Let me live for a moment only, for as long as it is needed to let out into the air and for your ear the treasure I feel inside me. Do not kill, what has to be born!”
As the nightingale was talking, the falcon was loosening its predatory talon, and with the other one was beckoning friendlily to the nightingale, which though at that very moment, passed away.
sat on everything. Heavy, immovable, like a benumbing and languishing illness. The pepper trees, the beeches fell asleep standing upright, rooted for life in the earth, tied up with the infernal ropes of their roots. As they fell asleep, the turmoil that the violent passing of the train left in their hair, was shaken up in their memory and became a dream. The trees dreamed that the earth released their bonds. It was as if their foliage was shaken up, as if it became wide wings, green, full of will and power. They moved, it seemed, they pushed the air and rose unheavily into the light, liberated from the bonds of the earth. So they thrust joyfully into the free, blue space, up and away from that ill valley of the moon....
....It was the dream from the distant memory, that had remained half-erased inside their fat, weighty, rooted bodies. The misty memory from the time when they were still seeds, small, fluffy seeds with delicate silky wings, that started out some autumn from the high branches and travelled on the wings of the winds. They were flying here and there, vigorous, erotic, uneasy. They were flying joyfully, ethereally, unbounded, and it was only the divine blow of freedom which ruled them.
(Who doesn’t have a pair of faraway wings to dream about, that slowly became roots and ropes... Roots and ropes...)
D. Trovas / Aesop
oak is pitilessly being torn
with wedges they have made
out of its own trunk.
And it, before it dies:
-“What if the hammers pound me so
and the saws are like snakes?
Only the wedges out of me
ache my poor soul which breaks!..”
yourself, in the morning of each day: I’m going to meet with people ungrateful, meddling, arrogant, dishonest, envious, unsociable – all this happens to them because they ignore good and evil. But I, who have understood the nature of good, that it is beautiful, and the nature of evil, that it is ugly, and also the nature of the one who has done wrong, that he is a relative of mine, not from the same blood or sperm but from the same mind and because he is part of the divine, I cannot be hurt by any of them, because no one can implicate me in ugliness.
discussion on processions, dramas on scene, flocks and talks, lancination on bodies, little bones to little dogs, pieces of food into the fish tank, troubles of loaded ants, small mice running scared, nervous puppets making gestures. So, you should stand before them with good will and without arrogance, pay attention, though, that such is the worth of each person, as is the value of the things he cares for.
is in danger; he is not almighty, that we may cross our hands, awaiting the undoubted victory. He is not all-holy that we may wait trustingly for him to pity us and save us.
....In the tiny lightning of our lives, we feel the whole of God treading upon us and suddenly we understand: If we all desire it intensively, if we organize all the visible and invisible powers of the earth and fling them upwards, if ever-awake all together side by side we fight – the Universe can be saved.
gives the signal of the battle and I, too, rush to the attack, trembling. Whether I straggle behind as a deserter, whether I fight bravely, I’ll always fall in the battle. But in the first way my death is sterile; along with my body, my soul also perishes, scatters in the wind. The other way, I descend into the earth, as does the fruit, brimming with seed. And my breath, letting my body to rot, organizes new bodies and continues the battle.
My prayer is not a beggars’ whine nor a lover’s confession. Neither a low reckoning of a small tradesman: I gave you, give me. My prayer is the report of a soldier to his general. This is what I did today, that is how I fought to save in my own sector the entire battle, these obstacles I found, this is how I consider to fight tomorrow...
are all one, we are all an imperiled essence. A single soul falling at the far end of the world, also draws our soul to its fall. A single mind at the far end of the world, sinking to stupidity, fills up our minds with darkness.
one is pelting stones
and that one is being stoned
the other one again sits
counting the stones.
T. Williams / E. Robinson
all of us children in a vast kindergarten trying to spell God’s name with the wrong alphabet blocks.
ideals which lightened my route and gave me courage every moment to face life joyfully were Truth, Goodness and Beauty. ...Every day’s targets of human struggle –fortune, superficial success, luxury– always seemed contemptible to me.
...The true value of a human is primarily determined from the degree and the way in which he has won his liberation from his ego.
...There is a kind of assentation which is a crime against humanity...
...I hope that your generation some day will put mine to shame.
prepares the crime. The criminal commits it.
voices were talking to me... The first one, sly and steady, was saying: “Earth is a delicious confection; I can (and your pleasure will then be without ending) give you an appetite similarly great”. And the second one: “Come, oh, come on the trip of dreams, beyond what is possible, beyond what is known!” And that voice was singing as the wind over seashores, a ghost that whines and no one knows where it came from, that caresses the ear, and yet frightens it. I answered you: “Yes, sweet voice!”
Since then, outlasts what can, alas, be called my wound and my destiny: .....I drag snakes that bite my feet..... ... .....I find a sweet taste in the most bitter wine..... ... .....and with my eyes to the sky, I fall off cliffs.
But the Voice consoles me and says: “Keep your dreams; those who are prudent don’t have such beautiful ones, as those who are crazy!”
parents love their children, they will not be nationalistic, they will not identify themselves with any country; for the worship of the state brings on war, which kills or maims their sons. If parents love their children, they will discover what is right relationship to property; for the possessive instinct has given property an enormous and false significance which is destroying the world. If parents love their children, they will not belong to any organized religion; for dogma and belief divide people into conflicting groups...
If parents love their children, they will do away with envy and strife, and will set about altering fundamentally the structure of present-day society....
....The rich have a peculiar atmosphere of their own. They are not the possessors of wealth, but are possessed by wealth, which is worse than death. ....The poor crave to be rich and powerful, and the rich are already caught in the net of their own action... The greater the outward show, the greater the inward poverty....
....You are always a guest on this earth and you should have the austerity of a guest. Austerity is far deeper than owning only a few things.
in tales and religions, passing
through legends, lands and people
I heard also about that bridge the width of which is no bigger
than the edge of a razor.
Only through that bridge, they say, you could pass to the light.
And as the wiser explain
you cross that bridge only if you yourself are the light.
see but your shadow when you turn your back to the sun.
the way you ruined your life in here,
in this small edge, this tiny one,
in the whole earth you have destroyed it.
creation of the world
hasn’t finished yet...