Existential crisis.

Existential crisis.
Again!
I am a dog with existential crisis.
In a cage. Born into domestication.
Even my younger dreams had me in cages.
I hadn't met a wild born stray dog yet, then.
Now I see them a lot. Some of their visions have swept into my dreams.
I can now dream things I haven't experienced yet.
I am a caged dog with existential crisis.

Vestibule.

At times you bleed,

like a thorn kissed by a finger;

like the knife dipped in ink.

At times you bleed,

like a heart fit for surrender.

Your mind is a shallow pit,

inconspicuous,

yet,

many a thought has tripped over you.

At times you bleed,

like you have always been bleeding.

Blunder.

You spent all your time smiling.

All but you,

All but you were busy travelling,

Across.

But you,

You spent all your time smiling.

Thinking of unheard of whispers,

Whispers that might be.

Whispers that you wanted to shout,

Across.

But all were out travelling.

But you,

You spent all your time smiling.

You heard them come.

You heard them go.

You knew.

You knew those who were gone were taken away.

Yet,

You spent all your time smiling.

You started whispering,

Shouts.

With time, you started shouting.

But they were all gone travelling,

Taken away.

Yet you,

You still spent all your time smiling.

Neruda.

I'm Explaining a Few Things

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs? and the poppy-petalled metaphysics? and the rain repeatedly spattering its words and drilling them full of apertures and birds? I'll tell you all the news. I lived in a suburb, a suburb of Madrid, with bells, and clocks, and trees. From there you could look out over Castille's dry face: a leather ocean. My house was called the house of flowers, because in every cranny geraniums burst: it was a good-looking house with its dogs and children. Remember, Raul? Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember from under the ground my balconies on which the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth? Brother, my brother! Everything loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises, pile-ups of palpitating bread, the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake: oil flowed into spoons, a deep baying of feet and hands swelled in the streets, metres, litres, the sharp measure of life, stacked-up fish, the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which the weather vane falters, the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes, wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea. And one morning all that was burning, one morning the bonfires leapt out of the earth devouring human beings -- and from then on fire, gunpowder from then on, and from then on blood. Bandits with planes and Moors, bandits with finger-rings and duchesses, bandits with black friars spattering blessings came through the sky to kill children and the blood of children ran through the streets without fuss, like children's blood. Jackals that the jackals would despise, stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out, vipers that the vipers would abominate! Face to face with you I have seen the blood of Spain tower like a tide to drown you in one wave of pride and knives! Treacherous generals: see my dead house, look at broken Spain : from every house burning metal flows instead of flowers, from every socket of Spain Spain emerges and from every dead child a rifle with eyes, and from every crime bullets are born which will one day find the bull's eye of your hearts. And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets. Come and see The blood in the streets. Come and see the blood In the streets!  Pablo Neruda

Tagore - Mind Without Fear.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; 

Where knowledge is free; 

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; 

Where words come out from the depth of truth; 

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; 

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; 

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.