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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476581" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Flowers Adrift On The Fragrance Of Their Own Foregoing</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Flowers adrift on the fragrance of their own foregoing. <br>In the night that takes me under its wing <br>to shelter me from myself, arrival and passage of spring. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fish nibble at the wafer of the moon on the tongue of the lake.<br>The wind bitter as a green apple with an innocent cruel side. <br>Saturn at dawn, Venus at dusk, things abide in their own good time</div><div style="margin:10px 0">without knowing for whose sake they shine until the mind <br>can't keep a secret anymore and let's the heart know <br>what the heart has always known. Reason is colour blind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Everything that's hidden out in the open isn't invisibly camouflaged <br>to look like God at a quick glance. Flowers don't dance<br>with their deathmasks on. Things may have changed </div><div style="margin:10px 0">since I last walked here, but they haven't aged. Autumn <br>not an older season than spring, spring not younger than yesterday.<br>Water's never heard of a virgin birth that ends in a real death. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Silence of time as it appears to the spirit in a deepening sea of awareness. <br>Nothing disfigured. Nothing restored. Nothing scarred. <br>Nothing wounded in the moonlight, pleading to be healed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Earth pungent with the expectations of urgent ghosts.<br>And dust in the eyes of the stars, the cries of Canada geese<br>with more longing in their voices than celebration </div><div style="margin:10px 0">like the wailing of a train disappearing like smoke in the distance<br>from a sad fire in danger of going out. Exits and entrances galore<br>there are as many ways out of here as there is space and time to stay. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bush wolves on a far hill agonizing over something in the night<br>like blues harps of blood. And in the heartwood of every leafing tree <br>I can hear the first violins of a symphony tuning up to the light </div><div style="margin:10px 0">as if something sublime were about to begin with the first dropp of rain<br>pinging like a tintinnabulum beside the kettledrum of thunder at the back. <br>To speak now would be to conceal what I really feel in words. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lavish with life, I reveal my voice in a rush of waterbirds <br>startled off the lake like a mantra of sacred syllables <br>that nuance the ripples they leave in their wake </div><div style="margin:10px 0">with a whole new way of phrasing the light with eyes<br>that see things musically as they fall away from their wings <br>like the meaning of things when meaning isn't necessary.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476581" data-title="Flowers Adrift On The Fragrance Of Their Own Foregoing de Patrick White" data-description="Flowers adrift on the fragrance of their own foregoing. 
In the night that takes me under its wing 
to shelter me from myself, arrival and passage of spring. 

Fish nibble at the wafer of the moon on the tongue of the lake.
The wind bitter as a gr..."></div>
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