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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=520075" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>What Are We Missing?</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Drops of rain<br>Wear upon an old bit of forgotten copse <br>Laying alone in a fallow field<br>All the different shapes and shades<br>Of stains and grains<br>Write the color and flavor <br>Of the soul in the wood. <br>-Who this beauty shall ever see? <br>To whom is it given, as intended, <br>A beautiful gesture<br>Of grace and love <br>Redolent mystery, only<br>In the quiet parts of nature... <br>Oh, how much more <br>Pure and simple beauty <br>In our daily hurry and worry<br>Do we miss<br>And even care not to see? <br>-By the making of humanities own hands, <br>And blindly narcissistic plans<br>We numbly linger in our loss<br>Trapped deep in a self-idolatrous foss.<br>The wonder of nature we can no longer see<br>Transfixed in our own vain absurdity.<br>No longer aching to get out-of-doors<br> (that pure passion villianously absorbed<br> by man's own created<br> electronic whores) <br>What a wretched price to pay<br>By those who willingly decide <br>Always inside to 'safely' stay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We all poets would be<br>If only our spiritual eyes were opened<br>For all of life's beauty to see.<br>Those who refuse to try<br>Sadly inside may die, <br>For of them none shall ever invision<br>What we, who dare to look, find<br>Nor never feel<br>What we, who dare to touch, intwine<br>Can never know<br>What we, who dare to think, 'get'<br>And absolutely never understand<br>What we, who dare to pause....... can in no way ever forget.<br>Often, the sky weeps with rain<br>The earth tumbles with pain<br>Nature moans and groans as part of the cost<br>For paradise lost, <br>Longing for divine affection<br>And human attention; <br>Tis true: <br>Love is what everything and everyone is after, <br>From the simple slave all the way to the Master. <br>For God's own sweetest kiss<br>Is what we surely most miss, <br>In this<br>Our own blind, self abyss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'..... there is nothing, not even crime, more opposed to poetry, to philosophy, ay, to life itself, than this incessant business.' <br> - Henry David Thoreau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Smoky+Hoss">Smoky Hoss</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=520075" data-title="What Are We Missing? de Smoky Hoss" data-description="Drops of rain
Wear upon an old bit of forgotten copse 
Laying alone in a fallow field
All the different shapes and shades
Of stains and grains
Write the color and flavor 
Of the soul in the wood. 
-Who this beauty shall ever see? 
To whom is it gi..."></div>
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