Guest guest Posted March 31, 2006 Report Share Posted March 31, 2006 He is a very old man, With a stick, And a hundred and five wrinkles, Cracking his sun-drenched face. So many sunrises! In his left hand are corn-kernels, His feet are pounding the earth, His voice rises in the early morning, Meeting the sun : I am singing to Missauwa, my inner-god, My name is Sunrise, I am singing my heart of hearts. With his stick he makes holes, And his left hand drops one by one, Fat kernnels from the year before. He is Sunrise from Hopi-land, And talks only when I ask him. His songs have taken away, My desire to give what good What bad I have received. Throught many sleepness nights Throught many dreamless dreams, His song has pierced my heart. And my heart is now whispering inside. .............................. ............................... 3 am wedneday : Old man is wakin` me up again, His stick his digging and planting, A kernel that no-one has ever seen, His silence like his step, resounds meaningless. Yet, the depth of my pain is in mesure With my surging joy. Most unexpected gifts comes from Most unexpected places at Most unexpected time. The cold wind is etching His forty fourth wrinkle on my skin, And yet another sunrise, With his voice carried Across the blue mesa : Another sound, For another One. Patricia _________________________ Nouveau : téléphonez moins cher avec Messenger ! Découvez les tarifs exceptionnels pour appeler la France et l'international. Téléchargez sur http://fr.messenger. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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