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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477046" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Won't Meet Most Of You In A Lifetime</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Won't meet most of you in a lifetime<br>and know there are six billion of us <br>and more coming all the time, each trying <br>to interpret the sign of their own star, <br>you know, the one that nobody else can see<br>but for a few rays of light breaking <br>through the clouds here and there, <br>that says, this is the way to shine, <br>this is the way to shine, and that includes <br>black holes everywhere as well.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whether you can see through it or not<br>as a plagiarism of water and sand <br>every mirage has its own meaning, <br>every star belongs to a different zodiac, <br>each with their own totems, mandalas, <br>and shapeshifting constellations, each<br>their own houses of worship and disrepute, <br>we're all wearing on our foreheads <br>written in between the lines of fate <br>like a sidereal bandanna, each <br>a meme of one we're hoping will allow<br>someone to recognize us in isolation <br>like a prison tat that says we've paid our dues<br>for the last thousand lifetimes without parole <br>and have a right to be here as well as anyone<br>because we've done our time standing up<br>just to be alive, whether you're running from it<br>or not. Everyone's got a different approach<br>to their own departure, and though <br>there is no gate they must go through, <br>there's a garden they must spend <br>some time in for awhile, telling <br>the flowers what the roots of our names mean<br>each as unique as a snowflake<br>on a petal or an eyelid or a furnace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Each a theme of their own picture-music, <br>our lives are not sub-plots of the main narrative. <br>There's a whole symphony in the tintinnabula, <br>like a dropp of water reflecting the entire universe <br>just the same as there is in the first violins. <br>And everyone brings their own instrument to the jam <br>whether it be the wind in the silver Russian olives, <br>a tuba, a burning guitar, or the fossil of the lyre <br>that used to sing the dead up from hell<br>to a day of show and tell, and it doesn't matter <br>what kind of music you make, whether <br>its the choral riot of your favourite nocturnal animals in a zoo, <br>or the distant plectra of a hidden nightcreek <br>playing solo on a harpsichord in a lonely sacred grove, <br>or you're riffing on futuristic mystic mantras <br>like Tibetan prayer bowls that used to sound <br>like a waterclock of urns, as long as you're adding <br>your singularity like the longing high note of a nightbird <br>to the dendritic staves of the trees. Even the silence sings.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And what is it we're all really longing for <br>in the solitary labyrinths we've made <br>of the complexity of our desires, <br>if it isn't a world elaborated from <br>the prime fractal of our love, <br>as if it fell to each of us now, not god, <br>that weight was removed from her shoulders<br>the moment our cosmic egg hatched <br>and we took to our own wings, <br>eagles and fireflies and Icarus alike <br>to provide the image of light upon light<br>like a masterpiece we leave behind us <br>that's everybody's signed like a self-portrait <br>of who we were to each other for awhile <br>when we stood in wonder and awe <br>at what was arrayed before us knowing <br>it's the exact likeness of everyone, <br>and the star in the eye that's turned toward us<br>as if each of us were the direction of prayer <br>is the same one we've been following for light years <br>like the magi seeking the source of their own radiance, <br>candles in the dark wondering where <br>the light's coming from in billions of creative mirrors <br>falling on everyone alike like rain and eyes<br>so that before we close them <br>like two dew drops of stereoscopic water<br>falling back to our roots like our last words<br>from the tips of the tongues of the stargrass<br>to dream up new blossoms in our sleep <br>like new moons budding on a dead branch, <br>we each realize that we're the myth of origin, <br>the alpha and omega of all things that begin and end <br>as well as the unattainable for which there is no metaphor <br>placed well within the creative reach of everyone of us<br>though if I were to give it a shot as a poet, I'd say, <br>knowing what I know of this life in the arts, <br>like the habitable planets and ripening desert moons<br>of the low-hanging fruits of our hearts.</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=477046" data-title="Won't Meet Most Of You In A Lifetime de Patrick White" data-description="Won't meet most of you in a lifetime
and know there are six billion of us 
and more coming all the time, each trying 
to interpret the sign of their own star, 
you know, the one that nobody else can see
but for a few rays of light breaking 
throug..."></div>
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