O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities fill'd with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the struggle ever renew'd;
Of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?

A Strange Afternoon

I raised my hand to shield myself from the rays of the sun but strangely they appered to pierce through my hand. By noon I was no more concerned by the rays. I sat there without any compulsion to sit

I AM the wind that wavers,
You are the certain land;
I am the shadow that passes
Over the sand.

I am the leaf that quivers,
You, the unshaken tree;
You are the stars that are steadfast,
I am the sea.

You are the light eternal--
Like a torch I shall die.
You are the surge of deep music,
I but a cry!

The Pir of Clay Pots

I am the mystic gypsy called Qalandar;
I have neither fire, home nor monastery
By day I wander about the world,
and at night I sleep with a brick under my head.

- matka pir

there is no stopping the wind, but who said don't try;
We can hide under the umbrella, and ride these clouds to fly!
These drops on my windowpane, and night at noon;
I guess the clouds are marching and will be here soon.

It's 1:28 am right now and there is a slight drizzle outside... maybe I should go out and have a run having missed it in the evening... ok I think I should :)

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a rowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning,
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells,
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead
--- Walt Whitman