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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476808" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Obliterations Of Beauty And We Weep</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Obliterations of beauty and we weep <br>for what cannot long abide in us <br>because we, not the rose, are the ones <br>who are passing so irrevocably away<br>into an abyss that doesn't <br>take the measure of anything.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The lake knows the time <br>by the wingspan of its waterbirds. <br>I note the location of the stars <br>in the rotation of the Big Dipper.<br>And there are crickets <br>that will yield the time as well.<br>Time, too, like human solitude <br>is embodied in the things of this world. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time perishes when we do, <br>is born with us, matures, <br>and embraces our ends as its own nature. <br>Time sets its pace to the passage of us. <br>We are the muse, the motivator, the demi-urge <br>of its passion for shedding <br>the leaves and flowers and moon like skin.<br>And we're the ones who grow infinite <br>at the speed of light so that everything stops <br>immeasurably from there on everafter. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All things returning to the one, and the one, <br>returning to transcendence. Which is why <br>I come here this late at night when the stars <br>are as far from people as they can be <br>and yet they're still as intimate to me <br>as my eyes are. A mutually creative continuum.<br>The star makes the eye I need to see it by. <br>I am the fragrance of the wildflowers <br>and the adamantine insights of the rocks. <br>The singing master of the nightbirds.<br>The oracle in the leprous skull of the raccoon. <br>And my heart is one long, continuous moonrise <br>when I think of how the dead still animate me.<br>How they cling to my heart like ants to a peony <br>to let me know when it's time to bloom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The dead trees house the mosquitoes and the herons. <br>The fallen pine cones, the seed koans of Zen masters <br>under their brittle eyelids waiting for the fire <br>to crack them deciduously open into evergreens. <br>I don't lament the passivity of the dead in my life <br>because I put them to good use in their capacity<br>as enlightened mentors who urge me <br>to live splendidly whatever I encounter in the world<br>for all our sakes. I can be the blossom and the fruit <br>on the dead branch, as easily as a red-winged blackbird <br>sings from the green and leafless alike. <br>Not a bush wolf raises its voice up to the moon <br>that I don't feel its distant longing in my own throat<br>like a sacred syllable half way to blossoming among the dead<br>who always hear it like an auspicious beginning<br>to the summons of their leave-taking in the fall, <br>to the deeper greeting in the meaning of farewell.</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=476808" data-title="Obliterations Of Beauty And We Weep de Patrick White" data-description="Obliterations of beauty and we weep 
for what cannot long abide in us 
because we, not the rose, are the ones 
who are passing so irrevocably away
into an abyss that doesn't 
take the measure of anything.

The lake knows the time 
by the wingspan ..."></div>
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