Potpourri

If the trees could bleed and the flowers cry out in pain, Death would neither rest in peace Nor life run helter-skelter. If the eye of the needle could see, The fabric of mankind wouldn’t be soiled and threadbare. If the wall could tell its tales the secrets of the past would unfold. When the beauty shuts her eyes in anguish, Pain becomes beautiful… A heart gets caught up in rapture. With cupped hands I drank the ocean wave upon wave and quenched my soul by and by.