<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=559314" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Inkling</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tell me, o dilettantes, <br> <br>And august savants, <br> <br>Of your natural urge, <br> <br>And not so this purge<br> <br>Which in itself, after all<br> <br>Hides thy vanity, a pall<br> <br>Writing, believing that on the looms of time, <br> <br>You will cogitate beyond this mortal crime.<br> <br> Wherefore thou discerns progress, <br> <br>From sage duress to wickedness.<br> <br> <br>There are many, among those, <br> <br>Whose musings on paper propose, <br> <br>To either define the world, <br> <br>Or themselves, hurled, <br> <br>Into a mass of such language, <br> <br>For which they claim to engage, <br> <br>Believing to judge by inception and intuition, <br> <br>Rather than form, substance and conception.<br> <br>Disharmony, injustice, religion, chance, <br> <br>Naivete: innocence in innocent parlance. <br> <br> <br>Is this really the drink, <br> <br>These claims to think, <br> <br>Or flights of fancy gain'd, <br> <br>By thy lungs' hope stain'd? <br> <br>No. Nefas. Nada. Nein.<br> <br>What follows this wine, <br> <br>If not a dullened mull, <br> <br>Is the scientific consul, <br> <br>Of a million savage definitions, <br> <br>All of whom lack true intentions. <br> </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is yet another sort, <br> <br>Who paint in glorious retort, <br> <br>Themes of what in our ego, <br> <br>We destroy, and evolve, lo! <br> <br>At the expense of elements<br> <br>That form, for sure, our contents: <br> <br>Earth, water, fire, fell air, <br> <br>Chaos to them all foreswear, <br> <br>And this, my son, is that vast lee, <br> <br>For magick, superstition and fantasy. <br> <br> <br>Down in this deep, dark world of words, <br> <br>And old tongues, festering in limbic herds, <br> <br>There is, in that tiny corner, above your eyes, <br> <br>And that most primitive of tracts, smell besides, <br> <br>A calm reason not to reason, <br> <br>But seek a journey: Treason<br> <br>To many, atavism to gregarious some.<br> <br>When words fail, and opinions mum, <br> <br>Then alone could winters see the sun, <br> <br>And the summer welcome icicles spun. <br> <br> <br>So, me fellow wanderer, <br> <br>Withhold thy pen, and err: <br> <br>So that the wieght of consonants<br> <br>And alphabets, their adjutants<br> <br>Far from twist and compel<br> <br>Thee to thyself repel; <br> <br>But bring to light that need<br> <br>Which fuels thy crucial greed<br> <br>To seek the feel of this ink and feather<br> <br>Suspending impulse, and a logical weather.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Lucius+Sulla">Lucius Sulla</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=559314" data-title="Inkling de Lucius Sulla" data-description="Tell me, o dilettantes, And august savants, Of your natural urge, And not so this purge Which in itself, after all Hides thy vanity, a pall Writing, believing that on the looms of time, You will cogitate beyond this mortal crime...."></div> </div> </div>

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