Like a small café on the street of strangers— that’s love… its doors open to all.
Like a café that expands and
contracts with the weather:
if it pours with rain its customers increase,
if the weather’s fine, they are few and weary…
I am here, stranger, sitting in the corner.
(What color are your eyes? What is your name?)
How shall I call to you as you pass by,
as I sit waiting for you?)
A small café, that’s love.
I order two glasses of wine
and drink to my health and yours.
I am carrying two caps
and an umbrella. It is raining now.
It is raining more than ever,
and you do not come in.
I say to myself at last: Perhaps she who I was waiting for
was waiting for me, or was waiting for some other man,
or was waiting for us, and did not find him/me.
She would say: Here I am waiting for you.
(What color are your eyes? What is your name?
What kind of wine do you prefer? How shall I call to you when you pass by?)
A small café, that’s love…
— Mahmoud Darwish
Aug 20 Reblogged
Saw the original at The Morse Museum in Winter Park, FL. Stunning.
Lockwood de Forest’s “The Wreck,” 1880
m xx 53 by metindemiralay
rose 6 by Mirlenges
It’s frightening when you pause to think to what an extent you live up to people and are being lived up to in your turn, how generally you fake yourself in blind obedience to somebody else’s fantasy. The time comes when you wonder if you really are yourself and not a character that has been read about or seen in a movie. Whoever you are, you are the victim of somebody else’s enchantment, doomed, like the people in the fairy tales, to go through life in an alien form—to hop as a toad, bray as an ass, or fly as a swan—until the kiss of true love honestly reciprocated releases you from your bondage and lets you be yourself.
— Gerald Kersh
Jun 25 Reblogged