If i may i suggest a " extra ad" or " volunteer ad" kind feature meaning by watching this extra ads(not for getting any spirit stones or extra chapter but only for support) we(users) can volunteerly support our favorite novels' authors , translators and editors. It is merely a suggestion if not practical i apologize.
To support our favorite webnovels' authors, translators and editors
+1
That’s a really good idea.
+1
@WEBNOVEL_OFFICIAL please share your thoughts about this.
Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
"We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon."
I ask, "But how am I to get up to you ?"
They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds."
"My mother is waiting for me at home, "I say, "How can I leave
her and come?"
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will
be the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
"We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass."
I ask, "But how am I to join you?"
They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore and stand with
your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves."
I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the everything-
how can I leave her and go?"
They smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.
And no one in the world will know where we both are.
by Rabindranath Tagore
I like it!
Three bows to all for their support.
No, I wasn't meant to love and be loved. (poem)
No, I wasn't meant to love and be loved.
If I'd lived longer, I would have waited longer.
Knowing you are faithless keeps me alive and hungry.
Knowing you faithful would kill me with joy.
Delicate are you, and your vows are delicate, too,
so easily do they break.
You are a laconic marksman. You leave me
not dead but perpetually dying.
I want my friends to heal me, succor me.
Instead, I get analysis.
Conflagrations that would make stones drip blood
are campfires compared to my anguish.
Two-headed, inescapable anguish!—
Love's anguish or the anguish of time.
Another dark, severing, incommunicable night.
Death would be fine, if I only died once.
I would have liked a solitary death,
not this lavish funeral, this grave anyone can visit.
You are mystical, Ghalib, and, also, you speak beautifully.
Are you a saint, or just drunk as usual?
by Mirza Ghalib
up
no
Thank you to all for sharing your honest opinions.
April Fools
I (poem)
I wonder if I know him
In whose speech is my voice,
In whose movement is my being,
Whose skill is in my lines,
Whose melody is in my songs
In joy and sorrow.
I thought he was chained within me,
Contained by tears and laughter,
Work and play.
I thought he was my very self
Coming to an end with my death.
Why then in a flood of joy do I feel him
In the sight and touch of my beloved?
This 'I' beyond self I found
On the shores of the shining sea.
Therefore I know
This 'I' is not imprisoned within my bounds.
Losing myself, I find him
Beyond the borders of time and space.
Through the Ages
I come to know his Shining Self
In the life of the seeker,
In the voice of the poet.
From the dark clouds pour the rains.
I sit and think:
Bearing so many forms, so many names,
I come down, crossing the threshold
Of countless births and deaths.
The Supreme undivided, complete in himself,
Embracing past and present,
Dwells in Man.
Within Him I shall find myself -
The 'I' that reaches everywhere.
by Rabindranath Tagore
i like the poem you use it's classic .
Weavers (poem)
Weavers, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
by Sarojini Naidu
A Fish’s Wish
There was once a fish
tired of the sea, oppressed
leaped high, escaped
from the prison of the sea.
Saw first time the shore
the spaces so far!
From the security of waters
from its bothers
broke loose from barriers of flesh
landed writhing on the beach
pining for water
from her burning breath
her world was on fire.
The fish of the sea gathered.
‘Stepping outside
even a little is fatal' they spoke,
‘though the heart may thrill with hope!
Keep aspirations banked
freeze them' they advised.
But another fish
dreamt, and heard
a glowing call:
O, come, come, come over
when? Tell me when do we embrace?
That fish could bear this no longer,
could not her friend's call ignore,
and she leaped
so high, high into the blue yonder
and landed on grass that was tender.
Felt something cool, something sweet,
utterly fresh, never before seen.
Then she felt suffocated
though her being craved
a flame within surged
the fire in her bones sprang freed.
Again the fish congregated
‘You get out you die', they said.
‘We are after all just fish.
Can we dream?
And can we talk of freedom?
Fierce the fate
outside water,
and even in water
from the net.'
A third fish woke up
and saw such a conflagration!
In waters of the sea, in waves, in wind,
in its sinews, in every organ.
Fire beside fire turned so strange that
she got free from her scales
sprouted wings that pierced her ribs
in the open sky spread her wings
and even today she beckons:
‘Some fish scan high
some lower their gaze
in some a fire in every cell erupts.'
By Makarand Dave
