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Cats Loved

My heart loves cats, their demure sense entices
The day with a dominion called country;
Desultory affairs sweetly decide me in the cat,
Comely thoughts from the cat entice me.
This cat, that cat and those worst objects
Become elixirs, of cleverness and clarity.
The signs of ebullience from the feline animals
Are so daily and suddenly rich, that they must be clever.
Life from these feline creatures is ephemeral.

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Pretty world of a girl

Pretty world of a girl

Her father was toiling for money.
Her mother was using money for homely requirement.
Her brother was seeing for better tomorrow.
She was playing with dolls.
Some times she runs behind the butterflies & having balloons in her hands.
Most of her time passes away in play ground & among co friends.
Her innocence is praised by all family members.
In this way her world is very-very different from the world of the elder people.
It was its own world which is full of innocence & free from every type
of tension.
It is the world of a pretty small girl.

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A fantasy is she.

An actress is a fantasy
To many men in ecstasy.
She herself is a reality
To an actor in intimacy.
28.06.2011

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Elevating Communication

Numbers mean not a thing to me
but words to me are ecstasy.
To add or subtract
to me seems absurd
when I can be busy with a word.

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The Hurry....

to insist, that is power enough.
to rise up, after a fall,
that is cliche that we are not afraid
to use, we are that.
stagnant pools collect,
and they die.
to run, and keep on running
that is cleansing.
to stop but only for a while
to ponder upon the plight of the dead bird
lying on the street
no one lasts long forever,
that is the most basic fact that we take along with us in our long journey.
i collect moments now. I will have more
before I die.
My neighbor wants to go with me for a hunt
i tell him do not bring any sling.
This is different, Totally different.
We are looking for silent nooks.
WE want moons, we drink only dew

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The Vacuum

The world will not pain
When someone is dead.
It will be happy
To fill the vacuum.

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Charles Baudelaire

My Earlier Life

I've been home a long time among the vast porticos,
Which the mariner sun has tinged with a million fires,
Whose grandest pillars, upright, majestic and cold
Render them the same, this evening, as caves with basalt spires.

The swells' overwhelming accords of rich music,
Heaving images of heaven to the skies,
Mingle in a way solemn and mystic
With the colors of the horizon reflected by my eyes.

It was here I was true to the voluptuous calm,
The milieu of azure, the waves, the splendors,
And the nude slaves, all impregnated with odors,

Who refreshed my brow with waving palms
My only care to bring to meaning from anguish
The sad secret in which I languish.


Translated by William A. Sigler

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The Christmas Homes of England

The Christmas homes of England!
How far-famed and how dear;
In bright array they ever stand,
That glad day of the year;
When gathered round the hearth-stone,
The loved ones joyful meet,
With one accord from far and near,
The circle glad to greet.
The Christmas homes of England!
O, many a joyous brow,
Which ever yet hath hailed that day,
Will sorrowfully bow,
When this one now returneth;
For they look, but look in vain,
The pride and joy of that glad home,
They ne'er shall see again!

The Christmas homes of England!
In manhood's noblest bloom,
On Alma's bloody fields thy lords

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Many 'Boos' Have Been Booted

Many 'boos' have been booted,
With their hearts left in pain.
Many boos have been booted,
To the curbs they have been scooted.

And,
Many have adopted a new campaign.
Those boos have been booted,
To the curbs they have been scooted.

Nicknames once adopted for each other have gone.
And now they're out to prove they are nobody's ding-dongs.
Many 'boos' have been booted,
And the pain they feel will not be...
Muted.

Many 'boos' have been booted,
With their hearts left in pain.
Many boos have been booted,
To the curbs they have been scooted.

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To Beethoven

In o'er-strict calyx lingering,
Lay music's bud too long unblown,
Till thou, Beethoven, breathed the spring:
Then bloomed the perfect rose of tone.

O Psalmist of the weak, the strong,
O Troubadour of love and strife,
Co-Litanist of right and wrong,
Sole Hymner of the whole of life,

I know not how, I care not why, --
Thy music sets my world at ease,
And melts my passion's mortal cry
In satisfying symphonies.

It soothes my accusations sour
'Gainst thoughts that fray the restless soul:
The stain of death; the pain of power;
The lack of love 'twixt part and whole;

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