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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476843" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Rubies Of Blood Running Like Ruptured Cherries</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rubies of blood running like ruptured cherries <br>down my arms. The night swarms<br>like a feeding frenzy of junkies <br>all in for a little taste. The heat hangs <br>like something dangerous in the air <br>as if the atmosphere were on a short fuse<br>and you can feel the fangs of its potential bared.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like a bear to berries, I come here for stars.<br>It's a lair of sorts for wounded wolf hearts <br>gored by the moon, and it's healing <br>to look upon the waters when you're in pain.<br>There's nothing undisciplined about the chaos here. <br>Everything just seems to fall into place <br>of its own accord without anyone having <br>to explain anything to the animated silence <br>about how it all works effortlessly <br>in an unintended harmony of living and dying.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The trees understand like an alphabet <br>that's never gone out of use, what it means <br>when the wind skims through their leaves <br>like the synopsis for a serialized book of wisdom <br>with an ambivalent happy ending<br>that takes your breath away in awe. <br>And the waterlilies show their poems to the stars. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The serenity here could almost seem offensive <br>in its aloofness, as the genetics of random chance<br>get on with fate, and if you're noticed at all, <br>it's as a possible threat the beavers choose to ignore. <br>And the white-tailed deer cue off of them. <br>Not one of the wild irises clustered <br>like the indigo fires of the Pleiades<br>where the river slows down to pay homage in passing <br>to the decimated groves of the fallen birch<br>that lie like wrecked wharves in the water <br>the turtles and the frogs could sun themselves on<br>like happy freaks with no concern at all for their downfall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Everything acceptable as a matter of course <br>with equanimity. A kind of impersonal poise <br>sustained even beyond death <br>in the way all living things <br>give themselves back to things as if <br>they were returning to the source of their own lives<br>to lavish the watershed with inexhaustible gifts. <br>Moonlight on the blades of silver swords<br>forged among the stars, surrendered <br>from a bridge between life and death <br>in a wordless tribute to the crossing of the river.<br>Or the unsayable insights of the rocks around here <br>that keep the epics of the glaciers <br>like enlightened haikus to themselves, <br>or a poet retreating into his solitude <br>to see if he can still remember all the names<br>of the stars that were the herbs and flowers <br>in the chalice of the ailing kingdom of his childhood<br>and if they still had the power to heal<br>what the man in me has left for the boy to feel.</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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