Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476685" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>If You Were To Give Me Your Hands</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you were to give me your hands, break your prayer<br>and offer each wing up to me, broken halves of the heart, <br>I would make one burning dove out of them <br>that would carry a ribbon of flame in its beak, <br>a comet in the night, a vision of life and love, <br>a message to God she couldn't ignore, a wild flower <br>that emerged out of the ashes of her abyss <br>like a star waking up from a bad dream <br>in the skies over the darkening hills of Perth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you were to give me your eyes for a moment<br>like the lily pads of two eclipses, I'd put my lips <br>to each of your eyelids like the kissing stone of the Kaaba, <br>and erase all memory of its igneous fall to earth, <br>and when you opened them at moonrise, <br>where I touched you, there'd be two waterstars<br>shining as if they'd just fallen from the Pleiades<br>among the waterlilies and crazy raptures of the nightbirds. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spare me a tear, and I'll return it to you like an elixir<br>that will dye your grief like the palette of an autumn tree <br>that's been painting for years, a sidereal Prussian blue, <br>with a touch of alizarin crimson, to burn <br>like the subliminal passion of a dragon in the background.<br>And when the fish return to their sacred pools on pilgrimage <br>like water sylphs, even when your mindstream<br>breaks like a rosary into billions of separate beads<br>flowing over the precipice of your eyelashes into the void, <br>you'll be the bird that amazes the sun and moon <br>reflected in each of them as they are in your eyes <br>as you wheel like the phoenix of a double helix <br>with the Swan and the Eagle across a summer <br>of clear night skies casting the nets of their constellations <br>far and wide, like a spell that gathers them up like shepherd moons. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you were to give me your breasts, your lips, <br>your arms, your legs, I'd come like spring to a landscape, <br>clouds and rain to the moon, a hummingbird <br>to the goblet of your body, water to a wishing well<br>full of stars and fireflies, even at noon, <br>that's just realized all she ever had to do was ask.<br>I'd make your flesh feel like the shores <br>of some vast sea of unexplored sensual awareness <br>and walk them like a beachcomber in a red tide <br>of radiant starfish pumping light into your blood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would not ask for your soul or your spirit, <br>knowing the eternal sky does not inhibit the flight <br>of the wild waterbirds startled off the lake, <br>and even the wind can't hold them for long <br>like leaves and kites, when autumn says it's time to move on. <br>But if you were to give me their chains, <br>I'd retool them into royal cartouches, <br>ellipsoid orbits, halos, and shield-shaped lozenges, <br>to distinguish your name, like a waterclock <br>in an hourglass of desert queens firewalking across the sky <br>by the Milky Way, as if you were on pageant <br>sailing up the Thames or the Nile in a barge of moonlight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And should, never perish the thought, you see fit <br>to offer me your heart, not as a fortune-cookie <br>with a happy ending, but like the complementary colour <br>of the world's biggest emerald, or the red berry<br>to a crown of prickly holly leaves, never <br>would any of my thorns ever draw even so much<br>as a dropp of blood from you to gray the greening <br>of this lyrical innocence that sings in the urns of autumn<br>as if Eurydice raised Orpheus out of the grave for a change, <br>or wild geese carrying the souls of the dead south<br>out of a threshed cornfield under the first frost of the stars, <br>or awoke the Sleepers in the Cave, to a new age <br>that believes if you can't dream it with your third eye closed<br>it isn't real. It doesn't sail. It isn't champagne that's breaking <br>like a bottled wave against the bow of a moonboat <br>that's been in drydock long enough to heal its wounds <br>and drift down the mindstream of the muse<br>like a feather of life, with a leaf for a starmap, <br>a message of love, with no astrolabes or compasses up its sleeve <br>and a fleet of poems flying high over head across<br>the lifeless sea of shadows below, the crane bags of Hermes <br>reaching your delta where the river greets the sea of bliss<br>breaking into bloom like a third eye from its chrysalis, <br>a dragon at dawn, a planet in the sunset, a dream figure <br>that woke reality up from a firepit of illusion <br>like foxfire in the scorched roots of an old growth forest <br>where lightning sows the seeds of illumination<br>like fireflies and transformative storms of stars <br>under the heavy eyelids of the pine-cones<br>that have fallen into a deep meditation on the koans<br>that have rooted love like an unlikely windfall <br>of constellations, whether your walking on stars or their ashes, <br>in the unsalted soil of its own galactic immolations.</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>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<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=476685" data-title="If You Were To Give Me Your Hands de Patrick White" data-description="If you were to give me your hands, break your prayer
and offer each wing up to me, broken halves of the heart, 
I would make one burning dove out of them 
that would carry a ribbon of flame in its beak, 
a comet in the night, a vision of life and ..."></div>
</div>
</div>