We wish for joy, as if it exists.
No sorrow or pain, the beast we all contain, was ignited in the universe.
Happiness in this world is nothing but a devious dream,
the nations sacrifice their days for.
Therefore,
when darkness over took them,
people have generated perverted illusions.
So everyone came calling and chanting it,
as if they never slept or knew.
They keep coming back, like a moth to, to flame: born new.
Eternity is two days: one is steady, and the other slips away. And life has two tastes: the first is bitter and the other is honey.
Likewise, there is no grace, in a blessing for the knowledgeable, nor in indignation a failure.
A person's happiness is in good times if they do not fade away and justice is for worry and happiness to be equal.
And worries, even if you warn, are constant, nor does pleasure, if you hope, continues.
So what is the consolation of non-staying worries? And what is the pleasure of a passing blessing?
But among the people deceived by his grace, despair he did not see, is thrown into the grave at last.
We have mistaken chaos for freedom,
we will never get free .
Men, to the slaughter,
to a chair with,
twenty six thousands watter.
They are matter,
but they do not matter,
they will feel their skulls shatter.
Until rivers run red, adams will fall apart,
buildings will collapse, volcanoes will erupt, only a few might survive .
The world as we knew it will no longer be there:
Every day will be a wack,
grey and black,
and we cannot get back.
Be the wildest of the pack:
Take life smiling as it comes to you,
in her palm, laurel or nothingless.
Dance on the roses and thorns, restlessly,
the bird or disgraceful voice sang for you.
Do as the world commands without reluctant,
and rein your feeling about it, it is an idol!
He, who suffers, his torment will not have mercy on him,
and he, who holds out, the tops will not mock him.
And if you want to spend the life in quiteness,
leave to the people, their world, its commotion,
and what they built or drew for a living system.
And make your life a blossoming fresh,
in the isolation of the jungle, grows and then ceases to exist.
And make your nights tweeting dreams.
Life, and what reverberates with it, is a dream.
YOU ARE READING
The shark
PoetryThe shark does have tears running on his face, but he lives in the water so you don't see them and so comes the oceans to be salty.
