bhagavad gita?A Poem by h d e rushinsorry
When the poet no longer loves conceal all adjectives in the breast pocket of the prince, let the Vishnu persuade him to do his duty and try to impress. (?) Does sitting in a corn field or on the bank of an old river, or by the side of a road where the cars speed by, invite the augur to predict ones future from the list of omens? There may, in fact, be omens, but no one devoted enough to squire, in romance, the bearer of blood. So go ahead. Predict the atticism of old days, the rich garments of a middleaged man, or a wheel, a flange, projecting edge, a piece of cedar wood, the twilled fuel for a flame or the spanning straight line that light connects to fluid. Yeah, that's it. Decode women. Suggest staff and stadium. Gold can be arranged in layers, you know, not stacked as wood for the fire starters.
Sympathetic me; born involving three lines.
1.the morrow, love of sugar balls. 2.the senary six chambers women pass thru. 3.the stripped pattern of tiger maple for the new desk that holds my silk and self. 4.the hauteur shelf for my new hat. 5. the kerchief for your damp ring. 6. the hemp air, woven loosely with tired wrap, holding the disturbed tooth shells.
I want to be able to name the things I desire, like holymen name Ecclesiasticus as the only way to wisdom. But I am exhausted and loveless, so forgive me for the bows tied too tightly. © 2012 h d e rushinReviews
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Added on June 15, 2012Last Updated on June 16, 2012 Author
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