Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details |
Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.
Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,
As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.
If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.
An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.
The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.
Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.
Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.
These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,
As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.
These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,
Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/bending_natures_bow_693209' st_title='Bending Nature's Bow'>
The way of Heaven,
Is it not like the bending of a bow?
The top comes down and the bottom-end goes up.
The extra is shorted, the insufficient is expanded.
(Laotse, "Bending the Bow," pp. 305-6, 1942, Modern Library, Lin Yutang, ed.)
The way of economic paradise,
is it not like the bending of a bow?
The top comes down as the poverty-end goes up.
The fattest are shortened,
as the insufficient expand.
It is the way of Beloved Community
to take away from those upstream, with too much,
by mutually giving those without enough downstream.
Not so with human nature's way:
We take away freedom and power from those without mainstream value
And give them as tribute to those with too much.
Who can have enough and to spare to coredeem the entire world?
Therefore the Sage acts and transacts,
but does not possess or dispossess,
Accomplishes but lays claim to no credit or deficit,
Because he has no wish to seem economically or ecologically superior in value.
(Adapted from ibid)
Bending this permacultural bow of bilateral boundaries,
between host and client,
rich and poor,
stimulus and response,
self and other,
Yang and Yin,
Left and Right,
full summer's incubating heat
with deep winter's decompositional compost,
until all four Seasons equivalently fulfill,
diastolically complete their mutually integrative functions.
When seen together,
through Left's "both-and" ecological
as Right's "not-not" logical dipolar landscapes,
through life's seasons of well-fired water and airy subterranean soil,
through C through F closed-fractal
as A through G regeneratively open pregnant octaves,
through annual win-win economic balancing strategies
reflecting perennial win-lose ecological cycles
of (0)-sum slow revolutionary harmonic balance,
we can each and all shoot comprehensive conscious arrows
into fertile post-millennial enculturation.
bow-hunting each moment as my last
and our more polyculturally inclusive bilateral last step
toward ego death's eco-ionic rebirth.
This more fully organic mind-culture we are hunting
a rich composting Holding SpaceTime
of (0)-centric positive polynomial values
transporting negative not-not non-named,
ignored, neglected, dispossessed and undervalued Disvalues,
lurking behind our Fractal Commons of recycling cognitive dissonance,
slowly pulling into enlightening days and Transitioning Generation
to explore harmonies of scale and pitch,
and developmental learning stages,
proportional polyculturing designs and cooperative guilds
to optimize Positive Systemic Teleology
by diminishing eisegetical "unconscious" dissonance
from our global cooperative orthopraxis--
jump-starting universal co-empathy.
Dynamic subterannual understory,
regeneratively reseeding germination of Holding SpaceTime's
Zero-Sum eco-logical Four Seasons of growth and decay cycles;
too often confused with stagnant ego-serving Orthodoxy
degenerating Earth's gasping Business-As-Usual breath.
Time optimizes sustainable Ego-Yang's diastolic inhalation
through our Self-Subsidizing Eco-Yin-with-Yin cooperative exhalation.
Investing in Ego-reducing praxis for CQI,
Bucky's least dissonant way to improve failing systems
is to upgrade their environmental ecosystems,
their ecological balance and holistic harmonious potential flow streams,
especially their root-systemic perennial enculturation environments
to grow more effective year-round economic nutrients, collaterally,
Positive Teleological Value,
and less cognitive dissonant Ways and Means toward profligate hope,
Truth and Consequences for generating inclusive faith,
in The Good Life and Death of regenerative, coredeemer, love,
a graceful messianic incarnation
of post-millennial Tao ReGenesis.
including comprehensive consciousness dialogue,
grows from primally rooted regenerative fractal systemic practice.
Positive practice intent is not even possible to grow
without a Positive Teleological Assumption,
too often attenuated as merely enthymematic wish fullness.
People harboring insanity, depression, opposition,
high stressed over-populated anxiety,
are less well-oriented to Positive Teleological Orthopraxis
due to a lack of sufficient practice
unveiling contenting implications within contentious dissonance,
therapeutic relationships of mutual basic attendance
and cooperative mentorship.
The way of Beloved Climax Community
is it not like the bending of a Full Four Season
permacultural bow facing bilateral namaste
for life as death reborn?
Long poem by
Cyndi MacMillan | Details |
It’s early morning, Sunday, midsummer. I have the kitchen to myself, and I decide to make an omelet from the brown eggs and farmer's cheese that I bought at the market, yesterday. The house is still, save for the sound of the fans and the occasional squeak of a floor board. I consider turning on the radio, but change my mind. How often do I allow myself silence?
Tea is steeping, a blend called Nile Pearls, and the aroma of pineapple fails to overshadow the black currant. I’m still in my nightshirt. Day can wait. The view from my window makes me smile for my herb garden has gone quite riotous. I decide to make my simple dish more flavorful.
Pushing open the screen door, I pause, stretch and lift my face to the sun. The thermometer is sure to climb over 30 today but, right now, it is comfortable. Stepping off the deck, my toes are grateful for the coolness of the grass, the absence of tight shoes, those self-imposed feminine trappings.
my clean feet
wet with dew –
There is a feeling of sanctity, here. My garden is raised, built into a small hill that provides privacy, yet swallows yard space. I pause to sniff the lavender, let the week dissolve into soft, purple splendor. Pointless, really, to even try to ignore the rhubarb. It is a tyrant, defying borders, refusing to compromise its position. Enormous leaves rustle and I grin as a chipmunk streaks for the cedar hedge. I close in on the herbs, consider my options and snap off several long, verdant spikes.
Close to fields, we have had our share of visitors, small frogs, grass snakes, rabbits, red tailed hawks, the occasional raccoon. Nature is taking back the encroachment of suburbia. I rip off a mint leaf, finger its fur and a movement catches my eye.
a snail inches towards
There is no artifice in dawdling. Often, I think that my small plot of land is enough for me. No adventure to the far East, no sabbitical on a windswept isle off the coast of Wales. Pleasure, riches, surround me. Perhaps, I will never see the Louvre, but then, in small ways, the Louvre visits my plain home.
a spider's web
and my clothesline
The neighbours tolerate my brown thumb, our patchy lawn and my horrid bird calls. They have witnessed the earth under my fingernails, encrusted knees , those afternoons I spent coddling seedlings. One keeps gifting me surgical gloves, a nurse who fights weeds with an antiseptic resolve. The gloves pile in a drawer, unused. I gaze at my roses, notice the gnawed growth, wonder who thinks them delicious. Smart wee beastie. The street is stirring, and my sojourn will end, soon.
the widow next door
refills her new bird bath -
I search for a cloud, find one so far away that it appears otherworldly. Peat and black soil perfume the air. Inhaling, I accept a gentle invasion, a piercing that brings a deep sense of purpose and peace.
For just one moment, I feel that I am not walking the earth at all, but that somehow, as impossible as it seems, the Earth just began to move within me.
*written May 2013.
I miss my herb garden!
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
It was a woodcut in our high school history text, Unit 4 Beginnings of the
Modern World, that so disturbed,
from the Nuremburg Chronicles depicting "the burning of the Jews," flat
faces of the victims among flames, in no particular agony, not especially
during the Black Death 1/3 of Europe died 1347-1351 alone. Although
you die together you die alone.
Earlier that week
I had attended our 6th grade's performance of Fiddler on the Roof,
at first thinking
Coltrane should have recorded Matchmaker as a bookend to My
but as the play darkened
with the town's absorption into the diaspora, democracy
yet unthought of and rule of law a fig leaf for authority
Jasper, who played Zero Mostel, delivered his line well to the effect
you're just doing your jobs while wrecking our lives.
Anyway, nothing like that is happening here, is it?
The gardener planting tomatoes, the gravedigger finding skulls,
there is so much life a little death won't matter.
I'm reading Bloom in the Times, how
anyone who doesn't believe Israel should exist is by definition
Come to find out, I may fall into that category - not that Israel shouldn't
but as a so-called Jewish state
any more than a Muslim or Christian land. To some,
Jewishness is not a religion, it's an ethnicity. You have no problem
with the Swedish state, do you?
Should the Swedes be expected to open their borders to the Finns?
was a beautiful ham,
big as Zero.
A friend posed
this question: must all states be melting pots like the United States?
I said yes
not because they should but since
it's inevitable. Let labor flow like capital!
I hate when people disagree with me.
I get angry.
When a plate breaks, it asserts another possibility.
America was the last word of the play and brought a tear of pride to my
Immigration, exasperating argument re the Other.
How many's more than enough? 9 billion, a rational,
real number that exceeds or
is within the carrying capacity of the planet.
Climate change is the new Black Death.
I like the Amerindian body type and face mixed in with the European,
The irrepressible economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of elements, bags
of ice, fields of rice.
Embargo. The moon stares, bare, full of interstellar space.
Better a cold shoulder than a visit from our military.
The crazy Nazis must have felt themselves extraordinarily compassionate
toward the mother, earth, the goddess, history, or some such
abstraction and, thus, acted on a fraction of all they did not know.
Selfless soldiers just doing their jobs expanding the border or,
on the other hand, collecting fagots for "the burning of the Jews."
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
How far from nature and life it is
the gray clouds, airplanes in them
the night cooing and pigeons roosting
Sirma's garden gone to roses and seed
That airplane overhead!
pointing the way
pointing to war
War being an aggravated condition of what
we already know
Flowering beneath the noise
of yet another jet passing overhead.
* * *
Why this much sadness in a world so beautiful?
We are sad for the weariness of everything, including earth
(that will go on tropically flowering long after we are gone)
who are nothing
in powerful time's
history, passionate history, coffee between
* * *
Enter into alliance
With the sweet darkness, night!
Night and day, day and night
Everybody knows when the moon is bright.
We dance by the light of the moon
* * *
We dance by the light of the moon.
We dance by the light of the moon and setting sun.
we crow and call
and make the world alive
Two gray-skinned sharks, jets,
embrace in the sky, a blue green oil truck takes
the hill, cobblestoned, in low
* * *
to remain so
by the stillness
the movement of the car uphill
part of your system of beliefs
unmoved by it, parked
necking in the front seat
hawks diving for pigeons' eggs
and so you are compelled to move
by the force that created you. but
you impose your own small order
departing from traditions
human history understands
such as those currently developing
the human mind beyond its past capacities.
* * *
Two straw sandals
blue jay call
two sea gulls
* * *
The jets return
and breathing low
of pure noise.
Long poem by
Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |
A Song If this is My Country..
This Song is dedicated to the brutal Rape victim of Delhi and it’s a message for My Countrymen. The Original song is in Hindi on You Tube with Song Lines Text in English. The Song contains many situations universal and of concern of many counties of the world. The Photos used in the Song too conveys some message and I hope my friends on Poetry Soup would let me have their opinion. The original Song can be viewed on my You Tube channel or through following URL
A Song If this is My Country.. Part 1
If this is my country
It is yours also
Then why you are making
Such a condition of this land. 01
The dreams which we had seen
To make this country
A land, dearest to everyone
Those dreams are weeping
Whenever they see
You or me. 03
Is this the way
To make a new world for us
By nipping and crushing
The dreams and expectations
Of each and everyone. 04
By making the poor innocent children
As street baggers
What an India of my dreams
You have made O’ makers. 05
If this is my country
It is yours also
Then why the woman’s respect
Is looted everyday on its soil. 06
Is the man of today is so helpless
That those who rob the respect of women
Are set free every day,
So that, they may rob again
What an India of my dreams
You have made O’ makers.
Then why you are making
Such a condition of this land. 07
You and Me both have born on this soil
And on its soil only
We would part our last breath. 08
After centuries of long struggles
We had received back
And After great difficulties
We had started seeing
Some blooming. 09
We could have made it again
A garden full of flowers
A garden on which
All the seasons
Would spread their splendors. 10
But what you have made
Of our montherland
A story on which
The world would only laugh.
Kanpur India 07th Jan. 2013
This Song is dedicated to that Bold Girl
Rape Victim of Delhi
Who has sacrificed her life
So that Other Rape Victims
May be saved.
My Channel on You Tube "RavindraKK1"
When Rapes are increasing like a viral disease it is time we should find out the reasons, which are creating an atmosphere of such crimes against women all over the world. It may be a serious problem right now for countries like India but the day is not far off when, when those who are creating such viral through internet would be the worst suffers. My Poem and Video on You Tube on this problem is a very small effort in that direction….Ravindra K Kapoor
Protected under the Copy Rights provisions of Poetry Soup.
Long poem by
Samir Georges | Details |
A child passes by
So full of joy
A friend by his side
Broad smiles smothered all over their faces, a veil over childhood ignorance
Together they play, tumbling in the grass of the gardens of youth
But before long, before every scent in this blooming garden is taken in, experienced
A thunder storm invades the scene
Shocking reality into their lives
Ravaging their ignorance, their innocence
Shattering their smiles
And with great earthquakes, the ground beneath their feet shatters
And the duo is separated into a quickly spreading mist
It enshrouds them, whisking away their screams, hiding away their tears
And with that sundering, friends of old are replaced by the mist, ever changing
Sharp blades of green dull under the weight of the dew as the mist rides on the back of time
Slowly, like the growth of wisdom, the mist withdraws
With every inch of that once promising garden that is returned to the sun
Another inch of realization is exposed to the world
And where once gleamed blades of green and welcoming rainbows of soft scented dandelions
Now sprouted weeds, thorns battling amongst one another for more room
They sacrifice the shrubs and bushes of sweet tasting raspberries that once covered the
broad smiling faces of two toddlers
And from within the unrolling mist
Strides a man in a suit
With every stride he takes, away yield the weeds, and dwindle away
Disintegrating, crumbling under his very air
And from the foot tracks of his military boots
Sprouts a structure breeding advances, great wonders to awe the world
And what few roses remained in this scarred haven
Are sacrificed, to make way for more boot marks, more wonders to awe the weeds
Now comes another being, out of the retreating fog
On his face is a contorted image
He drudged along a weed ridden path
Tripping and tumbling over boot marks
Each sprouting small, developing structures, non-nurtured offspring of unthinking parents
His tattered clothes, assaulted by time and thorny undergrowth
Hung on him like the shedding skin of a snake
But unlike that of the slithering reptile, this old coat shall not leave its master
Both wandered on, both blind to what was around them, what had changed
Till one day, they walked towards one another
And by some random act of choice, or the strict lines of fate, both blind men came full circle
And without a glance, they strode past each other as they had glided or tumbled past their
ever changing pathways
As if the faces of their past where forgot
© Samir Georges
Long poem by
Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |
Patradoot or The Messenger33 /Many
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
A little garden you will find, in front of my house,
Full of beautiful plants and fragrance spreading creepers,
Its enchanting smell would force you to stop for a while,
And its loveliness would keep fascinating you, dear letter.
This lovely garden is the creation of my father*, dear,
Who has put his labor and efforts to make it, so beautiful,
That it’s a joy to be among the green plants and creepers,
His garden speaks and enchants every one, dear letter.
The sad green plants of the garden without flowers,
Would narrate the state of sadness of the dwellers,
And it’s bending branches and tree twigs would convey,
The agonies and worries of my beloved’s heart, dear letter.
Here you would also meet, my lovely little daughter, dear letter,
When you see her playing among the plants and trees,
And you will get a chance to listen her broken melodies,
She would be mumbling, while playing with her friend trees.
My sweet little daughter Krishna, is a lovely delicate child,
She is the beloved of our hearts, hardly twenty four months old,
Krishna is charming, beautiful and alert like lightening,
To catch your attention, immediately, dear letter.
Ravindra to continue in 34…
Kanpur India ….. August 2010
*father. Father of Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor or my grand father.
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on email@example.com
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
Long poem by
Ingrid Showalter Swift | Details |
glowing foot falls on dusted wooden planks
swinging around enormous trees
I skirt quickly...trying to catch it...
I can almost smell us here... I feel it.....
you watching me watch us
holding hands as we walked...did we?
I can't recall
but the muster of us infiltrates the air of this entire town
I can hear us in murmurs
rattling like a marble in a drain pipe a couple of houses a way
rustles ...fabric moving gently in the wind
like a wash line of cotton sheets and t shirts
I see you in a white crew neck ...a softly worn one
your jeans falling slimly from your hip bones
but really you wore an unlikely peach polo and shorts
there it is again...did you hear it?
I know I just saw....felt ...heard
just the occasional wind catching and soft wind snap of cloth
the water runs gently beneath the bridge
almost silent unless you strain to hear it's ghostly whispers
murmurs ..murmurs...that is what we are here
even the light seems to fall around us ...in our wake
and our words cling to the very particles of everything here
they are milling about
a cocktail hour of our youthful voice meshing in with the sounds of flying musket balls
the dust is unsettled by all the foot falls
thousands ...so many thousands of souls passing over this same history bridge
walking the same path to the gardens above..
How I love those English gardens...even as they are falling to crumbles
the aged perennial beds
the gates hanging askew...rusting
gracious with age and elegance ...thread bare like a hand-hewn oriental rug flung down a century or more ago in a noble house
never cleaned or moved again...cemented with passings to it's permanent place as if painted there
a leaf floats by beneath the veranda on which I stand alone
my hands on the rusting railing
but I am utterly surrounded...shoulders jostled by long leftings
such that there is barely room left for me here
Across town there are two people in a field
small summer bugs flicker their wings around them
...I strain to see with them with my eyes but only see them flickering
now ...they are on the board walked swamp bridge
... hidden by drapes of green vines
Look! ...they kiss deeply
but he withdraws...why?
she is left so hungry
...a hunger that will never leave her
that is what has indented this place
like the embedded musket balls in the house across the street
revered in their silent testimony
Long poem by
catherine Reinke | Details |
Stories are told
Of lost enchanted kingdoms treasures
Of jewels beyond all measure-
Diamonds, rubies, silver and gold
Yet blue pearl fairest
Wisdom story told.
A gentle love tale
For you to hold.
On the Island
In sea foam ocean
This tale of motion
Loves commotion, strong emotion.
From deep within Neptune’s caves
Songs they gave.
To spin their magic
A women’s eyes
In his sight.
For he alone wise warrior bold
Made they she
For he it’s told
Now long below the sea she rested
While search in vain he was tested.
Given to fatigue his journey
Settled he on land
His garden tended.
Years did pass
All seemed well but how his pearl
Sunk toward hell
If he knew
It’s sure he’d tell.
“search again I,
for where you fell.”
But know he not
Her plight now covered
Until that day
His love discovered.
For hidden right
Beneath his eye
When he heard her sigh.
And beyond his garden gate
Slept his princess fair
Under the sun
She’s the one
Like a feather
Up he picked
His pearl of grace,
Stoked her hair
To search no more
His soul did sigh
Her breath of life
And together their souls did fly.
A love that’s
Pure and white and round
A hunger- desire
Both they found.
Drink they did
And fulfill loves thirst
While to fate- to- destiny
Sang their first
For heavens songs
Were heard above
War to pearl
Yet to our tale
A sorry end
To brief indeed
A tear to send.
For warrior not
So wise believe
When dropped he did
His love to sea.
Now tears have filled
Her eyes of blue
With sleep ness nights
Pearl cries of you.
Cry to god above
“leave me not
so lost in love.”
“Again to sleep me
my warrior leaves
sinking deep beneath the seas.”
“Wait I will
if I must
100 years me-
find I trust.”
For he alone
Her love heart discover
In princess pearl
He find no other.
So next time
To sea you wade
Remember this tale
To you I gave
Of warrior wise
His search in vain
A princess blue pearl
His salvation Kingdoms gain
To find loves
And to drop]
And back to sleep.
It’s a folly best avoid.
For love is given to far and few
Watchful if it happens to you..