Through allthose years keeping the present open to the light of just this moment: that was the path we found, you might call it a promise, that starting out among blazed trunks the track would not lead nowhere, that being set down here among wild lemons, our bodies were expected at an occasion up ahead that would not take place without us. One proof was the tough-skinned fruit among their thorns; someone had been there before us and planted these, their sunlight to be sliced for drinks (they had adapted in their own way and to other ends): another was the warmth of our island, sitting stil in its bay, at midnight humming and rising to its own concerns, but back heat-struck, lapped by clean ocean waters at dawn. The present is always with us, always open. Though to what, out there in the dark we are making for as seven o'clock strikes, the gin goes down and starlings gather, who can tell? Compacts made of silence, as a flute tempts out a few reluctant stars to walk over the water. I lie down in different weather now though the same body, which is where that rough track led. Our sleep is continuous with the dark, or that portion of it that is this day's night; the body tags along as promised to see what goes. What goes is time, and clouds melting into tomorrow of our breath, a scent of lemons un wild in another country, but smelling always of themselves.
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Anna Blueprint for Negro writing by Richard wright summary sollunka anna plz
Syllabus la illa la?
The dreamers 2 by jack davis upload panunga
Will upload it in this week
@@literarydiary ok
Bro literary criticism Apology for Poetry ,perface to lyrical Ballad post painnuka broo Monday internal
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Material plz
Text lines thaan iruku
Through allthose years keeping the present
open to the light of just this moment:
that was the path we found, you might call it
a promise, that starting out among blazed trunks
the track would not lead nowhere, that being set
down here among wild lemons, our bodies were
expected at an occasion up ahead
that would not take place without us. One
proof was the tough-skinned fruit among
their thorns; someone had been there before us
and planted these, their sunlight to be sliced
for drinks (they had adapted
in their own way and to other ends): another
was the warmth of our island, sitting stil
in its bay, at midnight humming
and rising to its own concerns, but back
heat-struck, lapped by clean ocean waters
at dawn. The present is always
with us, always open. Though to what, out there
in the dark we are making for as seven o'clock
strikes, the gin goes down and starlings
gather, who can tell? Compacts made
of silence, as a flute tempts out a few
reluctant stars to walk over the water. I lie down
in different weather now though the same body,
which is where that rough track led. Our sleep
is continuous with the dark, or that portion of it
that is this day's night; the body
tags along as promised to see what goes.
What goes is time, and clouds melting into
tomorrow of our breath, a scent of lemons
un wild in another country, but smelling always of themselves.
Bro please going home summary post pannuga
Syllabus la illa la?
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