SOMETIMES
Sometimes, when a bird cries out,
Or the wind sweeps through a tree,
Or a dog howls in a far off farm,
I hold still and listen a long time.
My soul turns and goes back to the place
Where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
The bird and the blowing wind
Were like me, and were my brothers.
My soul turns into a tree,
And an animal, and a cloud bank.
Then changed and odd it comes home
And asks me questions. What should I reply?
by Hermann Hesse
17:50 - December 28, 2008
Recent entries:
- - April 17, 2019
- - April 10, 2019
Das kannste schon so machen, aber dann ist es halt Kacke - April 08, 2019
- - March 25, 2019
- - March 18, 2019
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
About Me
Random
RSS
others:
acornotravez
u-saved-me
footipoo
achmardi
scotts2cents
mistfree
murder
tinea
stepfordtart
silver4
singingcamel
secret-motel
notunique
nineofswords
kelsi
nacht-katze
jarofporter
elusive-you
eloira
eatmorepizza
dangerspouse
catsoul
blubbles
bedwarmhands
barefootruby
axde
atwowaydream
narcissa
whaleart