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=476785" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>No Gravegoods In My Solitude</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">No gravegoods in my solitude, no trinkets<br>from any spiritual world inside or outside this one. <br>The totem belongs to the dream that's buried with it<br>as the flower's engendered by the root it's taken from. <br>Mind is matter. Matter is mind. And it isn't as if <br>one is blind to the other because one shore <br>isn't parted from the other by the flowing <br>of the mindstream in between. Try to separate <br>the reflection of the moon from water in a dream state. <br>The moon is a characteristic of water as the water <br>is a feature of the moon. If you want to mediate <br>until you turn the vertebrae of your spine into a bridge <br>to get to the other side of a life you're already standing on, <br>that's ok as long as it's burning. Otherwise it's just going <br>to obstruct your path when you're shooting the rapids <br>of the Milky Way like your own spring run off <br>trying to saddle a rush of stars with a rudderless liferaft <br>and oars for spurs. Better to be a waterbird <br>with wings of your own, but what a thrill <br>to ride the snake until you can fly like a dragon <br>among the stars like Alcor and Mizar, the horse and the rider, <br>in the handle of the Big Dipper like a warrior Bedouin<br>testing his eyes on the dune of a tribal hourglass to see <br>if he can tell what hour it is by the dance of a distant binary.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's getting late. Nightwatch at the well. The town <br>unpeopled by sleep. A choir of train whistles <br>practising their inquisitive requiems at every crossing <br>like Canada geese migrating south when the autumn stars arise. <br>More lonely than mournful, I can taste the shadows <br>in the honey of life as readily as the light. I can smell <br>the fragrance of time like the first snowflakes <br>in a lover's hair, trying to turn her into a constellation <br>to sweeten the night air. And even in the ashes <br>of the starmaps the shining sets afire <br>and scatters like a library in the urn of the heart<br>on a wind that carries away the passions of this art<br>of exhuming more life out of a shallow grave than went into it, <br>I can still burn in the dark like the ore <br>of undisciplined diamonds. I can still squander my light<br>on the eyelids of the fallen flowers like a final kiss farewell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time wastes a death on me. Years ago the wind arose <br>and blew that candle out in the open window <br>of an abandoned house and ever since I've been <br>drifting like a ghost of smoke in a diaspora of stars. <br>I bequeath to the rose, the blood of my wounds.<br>To the thorns of the moon, my scars. To the night<br>I leave my eyes. To the wind, my breath. My voice<br>to the nightbird whose longing put my lyrics <br>to the picture-music that's haunted me all my life <br>like the song of someone who loved me once <br>before I was born and began to forget. But my heart<br>that I could judge the worth of like a bell bound to the earth, <br>or a feather of fire in hell, in the palm of my hand, <br>I give that to everyone like the windfall of a tree in a storm. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Black walnuts and wild apples. Solar systems <br>of peaches and pears in the leftover orchards <br>of organic gardens bearing the fruit of a habitable planet <br>at the autumn equinox of the New England asters <br>and modest suns of the Jerusalem artichokes <br>for the birds and the squirrels and the bears. <br>You can't keep what you won't give away <br>and it's no good to you in a grave when it comes time <br>to throw yourself overboard to stay afloat<br>and weather the squalls on your own sea of awareness <br>like an empty moonboat drifting through the fog<br>calling out to anyone who'll listen on the coast <br>of a new universe that discovers you like Atlantis<br>to a ghost of the old world looking for a passage <br>back to the more familiar labyrinth of home. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Liberation is freedom through creative form, not from it. <br>Liberation is life. And life is all entrance, no exit. <br>And you weren't asked at the door for any i.d. <br>And no one's going to stop you from lowering the fire escape <br>to get away from yourself. And if you were to ask <br>the mirrors of your own awareness, they'd stop staring at you<br>as if they'd never seen a new world savage before. <br>Everyone's going to leave an empty chair at the table<br>sooner or later. Like the skull cup of the moon <br>you've got to pour your prophetic lees out upon the earth <br>if you want to give your abundance another chance. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You can make lanterns out of fireflies in canning jars <br>or you can abandon them to the spiders <br>in the corners of your eyes like dreamcatchers and kites, <br>but if you want to shine of your own accord, <br>albino fish in the darkest depths with stars in their eyes, <br>you've got to see the sun flowering at midnight, <br>you've got to greet Venus in the Pleiades at dawn.<br>You've got to unsilver the mirror like a stripper <br>until you disappear like a bird in the house of life <br>through an open window like a crack in a cosmic egg <br>to feel the vastness of the sky that transcends <br>the limit of your wings. Despite the eye-witness <br>in the mirror, where time is always in arrears to eternity, <br>you've got to give it all up like your shining reflection<br>if you want to stay here for your own protection.</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=476785" data-title="No Gravegoods In My Solitude de Patrick White" data-description="No gravegoods in my solitude, no trinkets
from any spiritual world inside or outside this one. 
The totem belongs to the dream that's buried with it
as the flower's engendered by the root it's taken from. 
Mind is matter. Matter is mind. And it is..."></div>
</div>
</div>