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Quote by Christian Simamora

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All You Can Eat

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Christian Simamora

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“It is obvious what the wind will do, and so is the cloud. Flowers, trees, even birds; it is even obvious what the most unknown being will do. However, we know a being well: it is not obvious what they will do. You happen to know: they picked up roses, and are giving them to someone. And then you happen to know again: the roses belong to the man they killed.”

NatureWindReflectionMetaphorObservationIronyPoeticHuman BehaviorRosesMinimal
Book:a Song a Poem
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“As the sun continued to rise, the tune became more intoxicating, lulling me into a completely relaxed state. I allowed my mind to drift, imagining I was walking through a pretty meadow full of roses. In my mind’s eye, I held a rose flower in my hands and sniffed at it, my eyes shining with pure happiness. In my dreamy state, the air smelled of roses, warming my spirit and coaxing me to stop and rest. Lying back in the grass, I stretched my arms up to the sky, inviting the sun to join me. Warm tingles rippled across my skin and eased the pressure in my head. I was light, drifting through the breeze and letting the wind take me somewhere untouched and soothing.”

HappinessMusicMysterySafeRosesLiteraryChildhood MemoryBeauty Of NatureDay DreamingFlute
Book:Adira and the Dark Horse
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“At an overgrown garden with a weathered picket fence, I stop and lean over the fence to sniff at a pristine bright red rose bloom between hundreds of others on a lush rose bush. They all exude an intoxicating scent, which obviously also pleases the bees, who, despite the twilight, are still out and about in astonishing numbers to diligently collect pollen. I deeply inhale the sweet smell and then walk on with a dreamy smile.”

RosesEnjoying LifeJutta SwietlinskiFlowing Like WaterEnjoying Life Quotes
Book:Flowing like Water
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“This Elixir Smites by Stewart Stafford How dull the rose's painted lustre, As bees gossip, all mistrust her, Window taps on stormy nights, Aphids swarm as suckling mites. Once buds entwined at Nature's hip, Now cleft in two and water-dipped, Glass-twisted strangest shape, Mauve-petalled mausoleum draped. Neglected drops in muted drought, The bloody thorns scratch about, A lush finger in withered point, Pruned stem of glum conjoint. Cataclysms from petty faults arise; Reflection pardoned in imperfect eyes. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

LoveNatureForgivenessGardenAnimalsLove PoemLove PoemsLove PoetryRoses
Author:Stewart Stafford
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