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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476611" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>How Rare That Anyone</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">How rare that anyone prefers the real, <br>	fire that can drown, water that burns; <br>		the whole of the night sky <br>form-fitted to your face like a skin<br>of translucent cellophane<br>	that takes your breath away. <br>My heart marches like a little drum in a vast darkness <br>	toward a war <br>		it is important not to win. <br>The stars are strewn like white sweet clover<br>	along the roads of brave men in masks, <br>		but the true holy wars are faceless <br>and the martyrs always die alone <br>like leaves without names, <br>	like a species that went extinct <br>before it was discovered<br>	to be the only known antidote <br>		to terminal literalism. <br>Follow your thoughts far enough into delusion <br>	and they'll fray like ropes, <br>		like the deltas of ancient rivers, <br>like the burning bushes of evolution <br>	under the mammary bell-curves <br>		of thermophilic bacteria, <br>the voice of God, denuded of its mystery, <br>	the magmatic venting <br>		of a deep sea fumarole.<br>The fools enthrone themselves like rivers <br>	in a palace of salt in a desert<br>		that withers like lightning in the root, <br>but the wise know they play with their lives <br>	long into the late afternoon <br>		like toys that don't belong to them <br>and will be taken back<br>	by the lengthening hands of the shadows <br>		that approach us like slow dreams. <br>And what's the body if not <br>	a bag-pipe full of water <br>		leaking out of itself like the highland lament <br>of a widow in the rain? <br>	Flesh rises and falls <br>		like the curtain on a bad play<br>as one by one time ushers <br>	friends, lovers, family out of the audience <br>		until not even the echoes are listening. <br>Most die like the understudies of stars <br>	that never made an appearance; <br>		darkness falling like the eyelid of a stage <br>booked for a dress rehearsal of ghosts. <br>	We're the flame of a little flower <br>		marqueed for the blink of a lightbulb <br>in the nightclubs of the stars<br>	that go out like fireflies in our tears. <br>		And the mystics wait like massive coronaries <br>in intensive care <br>	for God to come like a heart donor<br>		only to find she was the wrong blood type, <br>and the scholars study themselves to death like desks, <br>	and the teachers espouse <br>		their ignorance with authority, <br>and the lovers get drunk on the blood of snakes <br>	to hallucinate roses and wine, <br>		and most of the poets <br>desert their own shadows like blossoms <br>	somewhere along the vine<br>		to crush their eyes like emeralds <br>against the anvil of their palettes, <br>	their mouths the skeletal hulls <br>		of overturned lifeboats<br>that threw their words overboard like passengers <br>	to save themselves, <br>		desperately hoping <br>a village of magic lanterns<br>would run down to the shore in a storm <br>		to salvage savage little me.<br>Everyone licks the empty, lustrous stone, <br>	the simulacrum of love, <br>		for a taste of life, <br>but who can draw their tongue out like a sword <br>	from the ore of the dragon <br>		that keeps them from the secret <br>of what they are? <br>	Who can hear what the nightbird isn't singing? <br>		Little doors, little windows, <br>gulfstreams of weeping glass, <br>	when will you ever learn <br>		to sail your own eyes <br>over the edge of the known world, <br>	transcending all your stars <br>		like starmaps configured <br>by a random throw of the dice<br>	pocked with shallow graves <br>		like the fangs of a blind snake<br>that swallowed you in utero, <br>	mistaking your cubist cornerstones <br>		for the cosmic egg? <br>How else can you hope <br>	to turn your scales into feathers, <br>		stop crawling like a ripple of blood on its belly <br>to die like another ladder of bone<br>	that couldn't right itself<br>		like the mast of a waking dragon <br>in this desert of shapeshifting winds <br>	to climb up to the urgent beds of the rain? <br>		And how rare to meet anyone <br>this deep into the silence <br>	with the spine <br>		to play the harp of their own lightning, <br>whose life isn't the voice of a barnyard bird <br>	they put up against their heads like a wishbone <br>		and pull like a trigger.</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=476611" data-title="How Rare That Anyone de Patrick White" data-description="How rare that anyone prefers the real, 
	fire that can drown, water that burns; 
		the whole of the night sky 
form-fitted to your face like a skin
of translucent cellophane
	that takes your breath away. 
My heart marches like a little drum in a v..."></div>
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