I dwell in a body full of memory
Here everything is sprouting into my story
He was the hero of yesterday, with a longlived name
She is the heroine of today, occassionally insane
I am going to spare a truth for an old lady
So i embed my root into heart deeply
There he and she and people meet in a happy ending
While my tomorrows are only just beginning
Love the lines There he and she and people meet in a happy ending While my tomorrows are only just beginning yes we have not yet lived our lives to the fullest and yes everyday is another beginning lets make the best of our time. Thanks for sharing Lady A.Yun
You write about two lives you are living: the real one, moment to moment AND the imagined life. Both come and go in your consciousness, which does NOT seem to privilege the real over the imagined! But TIME is relative: the imagined people can age and peak right before eyes. But the real ones must tread in time's tick-tick-tick-tick. So you can enjoy the happy fulfillment of the imagined couple, but in your own life goes in contrast very slowly. How many generations of imagined people will you create, observe aging, and bid farewll? Meanwhile, Time whispers in your physical ear and says in words you can understand, No such life for you, dearie. You and I will experience every single tick-tick-tick of your life.
While my tomorrows are only just beginning Yes indeed, your tomorrows and your entire future just beginning, and so may you be blessed!
The contrasting echoes of this poem captivate the reader. The appositioning of memory with the concept of sprouting, hero and insane, yesterday/today/tomorrow, endings and beginnings. All sown together in a cyclical pattern that spirals the reader along until the dissolution of the dream-like finale. The dream fades, and we are left with a sense that we have just witnessed something beautiful, yet fleeting like the morning mist on a lake. Another fine work of art, Anne. Bravo.
Thank you, Neal. Some artists give me the feeling that they're spirits dwell in a clay, and they're passing their legacy to tomorroms of others.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i wonder what my root means. there seems to be enough mentioned here to make several poems; as it is, it doesn't touch me much. I'll look at another; it is getting very late here in California! bri :) p.s. i read some of Daniel's comment. i wonder if he knows what he is talking about. hmm? does he know you so well? ?