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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476861" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Small, Warm Birds</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Small, warm birds of feeling, <br>	a profound tenderness, <br>		something to cherish <br>in the loneliness of being human<br>	in these vast, cold spaces, <br>		as I read your words <br>like poppies in my blood again. <br>	What stars could I call upon, <br>		what roses could I ask for their skin, <br>what darkness charge with radiance, <br>	what ploy of dancing buddhas <br>		could I summon <br>to let you know <br>	you are all my sky within, <br>		and the assent of my soul in the morning<br>and the bough of my homing at night, <br>	that there is within me a blind fire, <br>		an invisible flame <br>that consumes me in the ferocious beauty <br>	of its unseen flowering <br>		even in a flurry of faces<br>and the business tugging the donkey of the day<br>	braying like a knot in a stream of wood, <br>		and all the objects and forms of the world <br>are burning mirrors I look into to see <br>	the black pearl of your mystic presence within me, <br>		the irridescent luster of your shining, <br>how you are a message in a bottle from ultimacy, <br>	and a dark shrine of desire <br>		that can wake the valley dragons <br>with the fragrance of your eyes on the wind.<br>	I want to kiss your kneecaps; <br>		I want to crush cool mushrooms against your lips <br>and feel my kisses break like bread, <br>	I want to feel my mouth <br>		blossoming on the nape of your neck<br>and my breath blowing across the shy wheatfields <br>	of the softest gestures of hair on your skin, <br>		I want to taste the silk <br>of the inside of your thighs <br>	as if it were the flavour of an intimate paradise, <br>		and approach your breasts like crowns, <br>and under a full moon <br>	tenderly turn the sacred soil of your sex with my tongue <br>		like a stranger in the doorway <br>of an infinite longing to make you shudder <br>like the void into light<br>		with sexual eclipses on the back of your eyelids<br>that will fill you like a palace of water with stars. <br>	I am the luminosity and shadow <br>		of your green lamp that glows like the sea, <br>and my voice wants to bleed like black cherries <br>	over the alluvial plain of your stomach <br>		and touch you like a prophet <br>running his fingertips slowly over the pages of a holy book, <br>	savouring the revelations <br>		that throb like a pulse in space; <br>and there are storms that want to exhaust themselves <br>	over the blue thresholds of your hills <br>		and root their lightning in your body <br>like a tree of light, a new map of rivers <br>	for your blood to follow back to me<br>		like the echo of thunder in a well. <br>And all through the day <br>	with its curbs and functions <br>		I imagine the lilt of your fingers <br>on the rim of a coffee cup, <br>	the cougar in the glance of your eyes, <br>		the way you put a knife down on the table <br>like a smile without a script <br>	and what it would be like <br>		to circumnavigate the equator of your waist <br>with a rosary of kisses<br>	to raise you like a sunken continent <br>		out of your depths <br>and explore all your tides and passages<br>	with the fervour of a dolphin in a bay of wine.<br>		I want to be tangled like a kite<br>in the turmoil of your hair, <br>	the night watchman of your dreams, <br>		the one who notices <br>what no one else looks for, <br>	the stone of the small grave <br>		you sweep with your eyelashes <br>when the leaves of autumn <br>	lie down with the shadows of spring<br>		and the virgin windows of your tears <br>that no one has ever looked through<br>	weep like glass over the secret root<br>		of a flower only a child could see.<br>Beyond reason, gates, words, <br>	where the bridges take off their shoes<br>		to admire their feet in the water <br>and the waterlilies kiss the thorn <br>of the star that tore them like skin<br>	and whisper ancient pollens to the night<br>softer than flour and saffron, <br>	and everything I say to you <br>		isn’t a wound in the light, <br>a mouthful of shadows, <br>	a bell of water with a fish for a tongue, <br>		fleets of butterflies <br>learning how to sail the oceans of the rose <br>	like the keels and wings<br>		of love-letters you can read in the dark, <br>I want to fold you in my arms like the moon <br>	and pan the nocturnal urgencies of your eyes <br>		for a gold rush of fireflies<br>in the all night boomtowns<br>	of a heart that struck it rich <br>		digging a hole to bury its dead.</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=476861" data-title="Small, Warm Birds de Patrick White" data-description="Small, warm birds of feeling, 
	a profound tenderness, 
		something to cherish 
in the loneliness of being human
	in these vast, cold spaces, 
		as I read your words 
like poppies in my blood again. 
	What stars could I call upon, 
		what roses co..."></div>
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