2
" How many times did the sun shine, how many times did the wind howl over the desolate tundras, over the bleak immensity of the Siberian taigas, over the brown deserts where the Earth’s salt shines, over the high peaks capped with silver, over the shivering jungles, over the undulating forests of the tropics! Day after day, through infinite time, the scenery has changed in imperceptible features. Let us smile at the illusion of eternity that appears in these things, and while so many temporary aspects fade away, let us listen to the ancient hymn, the spectacular song of the seas, that has saluted so many chains rising to the light. "
― ,
6
" I have many lovers.
Where ever I look, I find them.
There is no place devoid of them.
They are everywhere:
In the enchanting Cottonwood trees,
The rivers, the rocky roads, the hills, the mystic trails,
The snow capped mountains,
The skies, the clouds, the soaring Eagles,
The blackness of night, as black as the Raven,
The absolute brave Cactus,
Listening to me, and the whispers I breathe.
Where ever I, look I find them.
There is no place devoid of them.
My lovers are everywhere.
They are everywhere:
In the rains, the freezing winds,
The sun, the moonlight,
The darkness of despair,
The days of pain and sorrow,
They never leave me, or betray me,
Or ever forsake me,
Even in my unfaithfulness,
They remain mine.
Am I blessed, crazy, or blind?
However much I dare,
Even in those careless moments; they care.
Where ever I look, I find them,
There is no place devoid of them,
My lovers are everywhere.
They are everywhere:
I close my eye’s, I see them,
They appear to me patiently,
like some ancient melody,
in my waking dreams, they are like wise prophets,
twirling in compassionate dances of forgiveness.
Allowing me my mistakes of existence,
They give me, ‘me’,
Reach for my fears, cradle and hold me.
They are everywhere.
I will regenerate,
and shine through their presence.
Through their guidance, from their quiet empowerment,
I will gather myself, pick up my pride,
Understand ‘life’, and remember reality.
Finally, when my ‘being’ remains not with me,
they will once again redefine, re-collect me,
recreate the aura around me,
find another place to replant me.
They are everywhere.
No place is devoid of them.
Countless lovers.
Their love: Omnipresent.
Only if one can ‘see’,
These lovers are everywhere . "
― Ansul Noor , Soul Fire (A Mystical Journey through Poetry)
7
" From his corner office on the ground floor of the St. Cyril station house, Inspector Dick has a fine view of the parking lot. Six Dumpsters plated and hooped like iron maidens against bears. Beyond the Dumpsters a subalpine meadow, and then the snow¬ capped ghetto wall that keeps the Jews at bay. Dick is slouched against the back of his two-thirds-scale desk chair, arms crossed, chin sunk to his chest, star¬ing out the casement window. Not at the mountains or the meadow, grayish green in the late light, tufted with wisps of fog, or even at the armored Dumpsters. His gaze travels no farther than the parking lot—no farther than his 1961 Royal Enfield Crusader. Lands¬man recognizes the expression on Dick's face. It's the expression that goes with the feeling Landsman gets when he looks at his Chevelle Super Sport, or at the face of Bina Gelbfish. The face of a man who feels he was born into the wrong world. A mistake has been made; he is not where he belongs. Every so often he feels his heart catch, like a kite on a telephone wire, on something that seems to promise him a home in the world or a means of getting there. An American car manufactured in his far-off boyhood, say, or a motor¬cycle that once belonged to the future king of England, or the face of a woman worthier than himself of being loved. "
― Michael Chabon , The Yiddish Policemen's Union
9
" Idris had been green and gold and russet in the autumn, when Clary had first been there. It had a stark grandeur in the winter: the mountains rose in the distance, capped white with snow, and the trees along the side of the road that led back to Alicante from the lake were stripped bare, their leafless branches making lace-like patterns against the bright sky.
Sometimes Jace would slow the horse to point out the manor houses of the richer Shadowhunter families, hidden from the road when the trees were full but revealed now. She felt his shoulders tense as they passed one that nearly melded with the forest around it: it had clearly been burned and rebuilt. Some of the stones still bore the black marks of smoke and fire. “The Blackthorn manor,” he said. “Which means that around this bend in the road is …” He paused as Wayfarer summited a small hill, and reined him in so they could look down to where the road split in two. One direction led back toward Alicante — Clary could see the demon towers in the distance — while the other curled down toward a large building of mellow golden stone, surrounded by a low wall. “ … the Herondale manor,” Jace finished.
The wind picked up; icy, it ruffled Jace’s hair. Clary had her hood up, but he was bare-headed and bare-handed, having said he hated wearing gloves when horseback riding. He liked to feel the reins in his hands. “Did you want to go and look at it?” she asked.
His breath came out in a white cloud. “I’m not sure. "
― Cassandra Clare , City of Heavenly Fire (The Mortal Instruments, #6)
