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God Live

God

Love the poors...

But

Live

With the richs...?

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Added by Poetry Lover
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A poetess who had died young of cancer had said in one of her poems that for her, on sleepless nights, 'the night offers toads and black dogs and corpses of the drowned.

Yasunari Kawabata in House of the Sleeping Beauties And Other Stories
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Your tomorrow is my today...

Your tomorrow is my today...

My today is your yesterday
Your yesterday is my today
My today is your tomorrow
My tomorrow will be
your yesterday
Why cant we have, you and I,
the same yesterday, today and
tomorrow?

Blame the Earth....
it is his fault
why couldn't he be just... flat...?

poem by Viorel Vintila
Added by anonym
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'Tis Eve on the Hillside

'Tis eve on the hillside, the bagpipes are distantly wailing,
Flocks going homewards, and stars o'er the firmament sailing,
Sound of the bubbling spring sorrow's legend narrating,
And beneath a tall willow for me, dear one, you are waiting.

The wandering moon up the heavens her journey is wending,
Big-eyed you watch through the boughs her gold lantern ascending,
Now over the dome of the sky all the planets are gleaming,
And heavy your breast with its longing, your brow with its dreaming.

Cornfields bright flooded with beams by the clouds steeply drifted,
Old cottage gables of thatch to the moonlight uplifted,
The tall wooden arm of the well in the wind softly grating,
And the shepherd-boy's pipe from the sheep-pen sad "doina" relating.

The peasants, their scythes on their backs, from their labour are coming,
The sound of the "toaca" its summons more loudly is drumming,
While the clang of the village church bell fills the evening entire,
And with longing for you like a faggot my soul is on fire.

[...] Read more

poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Corneliu M. Popescu
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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On The Vanity Of Earthly Greatness

The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,
And I don't feel so well myself.

poem by Arthur Guiterman
Added by Dan Costinaş
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