Now that we really know what life is.

So when life returns, we will ask less of it.

When this is over, I don’t think we’ll ever give a peck of a kiss again.
All kisses will turn into powerful, strong, big, sexy and wild kisses.
All hugs will be eternal and we will embrace forever.

When she comes back, because she will come back,
She will find me ready and waiting.

This is what I came here for
Nature’s artistry.

We were friends once, you and I,
We shared each other’s thoughts
We drank and learned the ways of life
In our ceaseless quest.

Now, encumbered wth the crowding years, we meet
Almost like strangers passing down the street
That joins tomorrow to dead yesterday.

What gains mankind from the wild rage of war
This long enduring torment of distress
Is there no glimmer of clear light
No purpose reaching through this bitterness

Off to the mountains and up to the snow
With youth renewed in my dreams I go.

Where the trail ends and the ridge grows thin
The final peak in my dreams I win.

Friend of the wind and kin with the sky
Watching the multiform clouds go by.

Forest and home left far below,
Alone with the sky and the crests of snow.

Alone with the Gods of the glittering peaks
Where the soul in silence with wisdom speaks.

Here, where I stop time listening to my trees,
I recline at rest between the mazed vicissitudes
Of human nature’s moods.

Stars gleam in an ink black heaven
I hear whispers in the night
A whirr of wings in flight.

I am so alone but unalone
My spirit hovers in communion
My soul is filled with quiet and comprehending joy.

With the sea, the sky and myself alone
Limbs free in the open air
I dive in and sing
To a world that is free from care.

In the amber light of the early dawn
Swept clean by the western wind
The mothering sea covers me
Healing the soul and mind.

In and out through the pearly surf
Unseen spirits of nature glide
Whom no-one knows
Coming and going with rise and fall of the tide.

I come out of the sea to the golden morning
To the call of life
Riling against sluggards
And the souls of dead slobs.

Trifles shape great events.

Your rights, yes, your rights!

You have no rights. There are no rights.

We have no right or hope to comfort or content,

To love or any personal redeeming,

Only to bear fitfully dubious thinking’s punishment

And make no moaning or complaint at suffering.

Ever demanding rights is no one’s fate

It wounds the compassionate.

We unjustly sever ourselves from our due

And yield to discontents and disproportion that haunts all we view.

If only things did not go wrong in such unnecessary ways,

If only failing wills grew strong towards the end of tiring days.

If only we would leave undone one half the things we needn’t do

If only folly would not rear fantastic grievances

If only …