Nothing,
nothing at all is born,
dies, the shell says again and
again from the depth of its hollowness.
Its body swept off by tide — so what? It sleeps
in sand, drying in sunlight, bathing in moonlight.
Nothing to do with sea or anything else.
Over and over it vanishes
with the wave.
support sheldrick wildlife trust
In its essence,
the Way is without words.
All this talking and pointing
and carrying on, only signposts.
Gather too many of them
and they’ll weigh you
down. Just be
silent.
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book.
The fun of roaming free
is endless, hard to exhaust. When tired
I sit on a mossy bank, unaware of the cold sun falling
in my love for the cool of the breeze in the pines. Deer descend
to drink of the valley streams; monkeys arrive to pick of
the mountain fruits. What I originally valued were
freedom and quietude; why should
I require that people
know of me?
Rory James Andrew Young
21 May 1972 Lusaka, Zambia
26 April 2021 Fada N’gourma, Burkina Faso
🐆
As good a man
as I have ever known or am likely to
was killed on this day two years ago. Please
read about his monumental life,
and please send him
your love.
Prayers for the dead
are on the same footing as gifts for the living.
The angel goes in to the dead with a tray of light, bearing a cloth of light,
and says, ‘This is a gift for you from your brother so-and-so,
from your relative so-and-so.” And he delights in
it just as a living man rejoices
in a gift.
Ibn al -Ghazali
🕊
Try
to praise
the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads
of exiles.
You
must praise
the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts
and ships; one of them had a long trip
ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners
sing joyfully.
You
should praise
the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when
we were together in a white room and
the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to
the concert where music flared. You
gathered acorns in the park in
autumn and leaves eddied
over the earth’s
scars.
Praise
the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays
and vanishes and
returns.
