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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476627" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Don't Think The Wind Sings For Me Alone</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't think the wind sings for me alone <br>even in this isolated space where it <br>silvers the leaves of the Russian olives <br>like musical scales. Or every thought and emotion, <br>every image, symbol, or insight <br>shares the same myth of origin that I do. <br>Nor all the words that I call my native language <br>weren't rooted first in someone else's garden.<br>As the air I breathe was, as the light that has entered <br>through many more eyes than mine. What I hear <br>doesn't belong to me, nor what I see, <br>my private vision. But when I don't grasp<br>at clouds and water, everything is my reflection <br>looking back at me as if there were no one there. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I disappear. And I feel my presence everywhere <br>as real as the sceptres of Queen Anne's Lace <br>growing old in the moonlight, or the blue fury <br>of the wild irises burning in their own fires <br>like the Pleiades. Who can understand<br>the circuitous wanderings of the mindstream<br>white water rafting its own axons in an empty lifeboat<br>when even the questions you raise about it are not your own? <br>I may well be that, but tonight, I'm not personally involved.<br>Things occur like spiritual events. The rat snake <br>strikes the frog, the shadow flash of a bird<br>transits the moon. Arcturus descends <br>before the Summer Triangle with the easy grace <br>of a light that doesn't realize it's being observed intensely.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I wonder if we're actualizing each other <br>in some interdependently original way <br>that it knows as little about as I do.<br>Or the dead birch tree that's standing by both of us, <br>naked in its bones as a fan of coral. <br>Silly man, now you know how a fly <br>up against a window feels. Or how a mirror<br>that's deeper than either your eyes <br>or the light can see into, keeps its appeal. <br>Been wondering most of my life <br>in an aloof but wary mode of gratitude<br>about the great symphony of love and light and light, <br>like someone who's been hurt by someone they cherish <br>without knowing why. And whether to laugh or weep <br>at the absurd tragicomedies that keep appearing <br>like vulnerable mushrooms in my sleep. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But tonight, tonight, all I want to hear <br>is the whisper of a dropp of water running down the sluice <br>of a blade of stargrass. The eerie rustling of the leaves<br>as if the trees had something to say to me <br>about my presence among them that leaves me <br>half again as estranged as when I first came here<br>to enjoy a freedom that isn't just a matter of changing gates. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sad man, but tonight I dance with thousands of waterlilies<br>under the chandeliers of the stars, in three four time, <br>as if I just remembered how to waltz with the bride<br>and bow to a flower like a lunar violin. My heart <br>doesn't look for its reflection in the fire pit <br>where I burnt all my life masks like straw dogs <br>when the sacred ritual was over. I denuded myself <br>basking in the clear light of the void, until <br>there was no one left, not even me, to notice.</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=476627" data-title="I Don't Think The Wind Sings For Me Alone de Patrick White" data-description="I don't think the wind sings for me alone 
even in this isolated space where it 
silvers the leaves of the Russian olives 
like musical scales. Or every thought and emotion, 
every image, symbol, or insight 
shares the same myth of origin that I d..."></div>
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