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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477043" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>With Fingers Of Sand</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WITH FINGERS OF SAND</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With fingers of sand, with hands of water <br>	with hearts fuller than apples with night, <br>		we reach out to pluck the orchid on the moon, <br>to touch beauty on the wing, <br>	the coal swan with feathers of flame, <br>		the shadows that wear our face, <br>the skin of a waterleaf of gold <br>	that evaporates like an eyelid of dust, <br>		the pilgrim on the smoke-road of the candle, <br>the black panther in an oildrum, <br>	and the vision is blanched from the seeing<br>		like the albumen of an egg, <br>the albino leper cooked in the mouth of the moon, <br>	we reach out for what exceeds us, <br>		for the dark thresholds of blood<br>in the palace of the rose, <br>	the vivid windows of the sea <br>		with their curtains of light and salt, <br>the green chandeliers of the rain, <br>	the hidden excellence of the early wood sorrel <br>		that whispers to us from its solitude, <br>shy secrets, indigo birds of paradise<br>	with harps of eloquent feathers, <br>		the laments and deadly night shades <br>of the alone with the alone in a shadowless abyss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">	And there's the predicate of an unexpected jewel<br>		sewn into the lining of everything; <br>even the flies are touched by rainbows<br>	and the morning lifts her gown <br>		and wades gloriously through the oilslicks, <br>hummingbirds in the sour trumpets of the weeds, <br>	jungle parrots painting passion fruit<br>with palettes of stuttering neon, <br>hard oyster hearts that bed with pearls. Everyone<br>	reveres the beauty of the wine on the lips <br>		of the unsayable quality of being<br>that supersedes them, a facet of the turning jewel<br>	that falls like the eyelash of an angel, <br>		a winged samara of autumn dusk <br>into the seeing, and for a moment as long as life<br>	they touch the pulse of an ageless longing <br>		and feel beating within them <br>in a panic of wonder and joy, <br>	the radiance of the starbound dove <br>		caught in the throat of the chimney.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even the worst have known the nightsky reach down <br>	and wipe the stains from their eyes, <br>		or felt embraced by a warm summer rain<br>that polished their skin like heritage silver<br>	and remembered it for the rest of their lives.<br>		For me, the chalice in the ore is you; <br>for me, you are all lenses, all mirrors <br>	dewed by the waterveils of the mystery<br>		in the early morning dark before creation <br>begins itself anew. My heart is seized by the fire-trance<br>	of a sacred silence, the word within the word<br>		as if wax suddenly discovered the flame <br>whose dancing made its flesh melt in a luminous consummation.<br>	Even seared in the igneous cages of my heart, <br>		an iron tiger baring its worn fangs<br>to the torment of the staring, when I think of you, <br>	a nightbird with gates for wings <br>		brings me a star and a key<br>and the bars turn into the pillars of palatial winds, <br>	and an openness lies before me that tastes of lilacs and rain.<br>		For years I've been witching for water in hell, <br>for years I've been diving for corpses in quicksand, <br>	living like a squall in a shipwreck<br>		under the eyes of a pleading lighthouse, <br>and the morning was just the morning<br>	and the night was just the night, <br>		and I thought it would go on like this<br>until I stared myself to death, <br>	believing there was only the suffering <br>		and the emptiness, and the suffering<br>and the black, mute bells of the wingless seabirds.<br>	Now there's a planet that gleams like an eye <br>		in the peacock silks of the twilight, <br>and a woman standing in the last shadows of the willow<br>	like a doorway, like a ghost on a wharf, <br>		like the depths of an urgent spear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">PATRICK WHITE</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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With fingers of sand, with hands of water 
	with hearts fuller than apples with night, 
		we reach out to pluck the orchid on the moon, 
to touch beauty on the wing, 
	the coal swan with feathers of flame, 
		the shadows that..."></div>
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