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I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs, Rotting flesh and worms do Not convince me against The challenge. The years And cold defeat live deep in Lines along my face. They dull my eyes, yet I keep on dying, Because I love to live.

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon." Said the old man, "I do that too." The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants." "I do that too," laughed the little old man. Said the little boy, "I often cry." The old man nodded, "So do I." "But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems Grown-ups don't pay attention to me." And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand. "I know what you mean," said the little old man... ##A beautiful video on Vimeo videos: A video   'He has the obligation to society that any human being has. I don't think a satirist has any greater obligation to society than a bricklayer or anybody else...' -Shel Silverstein

ABOUT THE POET: widely considered to be one of the greatest poets of the 20th century. He belonged to the Protestant, Anglo-Irish minority that had controlled the economic, political, social, and cultural life of Ireland since at least the end of the 17th century.  Another reason how I came to know him was the fact that he had written the preface for the nobel prize winning piece of literature and the first ever asian Nobel prize - Gitanjali by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore. NOW THE POEM: We sat together at one summer’s end, That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,    And you and I, and talked of poetry. I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,    Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.    Better go down upon your marrow-bones    And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones    Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather...

No sun - no moon!  No morn - no noon -  No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.  No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,  No comfortable feel in any member -  No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,  No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -  November! #Though Things are different in India!!!😄

If you think you are beaten, you are; If you think you dare not, you don't. If you'd like to win, but you think you can't, It is almost a cinch- you won't. If you think you'll lose, you've lost; For out in this world we find Success begins with a fellow's will It's all in the state of mind. If you think you're outclassed, you are; You've got to think high to rise. You've got to be sure of yourself before You can ever win the prize. Life's battles don't always go To the stronger or faster man; But sooner or later the man who wins Is the one who thinks he can!

There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.

About the poet:  Kahlil Gibran was the key figure in a Romantic movement that transformed Arabic literature in the first half of the twentieth century. Educated in Beirut, Boston, and Paris, Gibran was influenced by the European modernists of the late nineteenth century. His early works were sketches, short stories, poems, and prose poems written in simple language for Arabic newspapers in the United States. These pieces spoke to the experiences and loneliness of Middle Eastern immigrants in the New World. More at this website at Poetry.com:  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/kahlil-gibran Now, Thus goes the poem: In the ancient days, when the first quiver of speech came to my lips, I ascended the holy mountain and spoke unto God, saying, “Master, I am thy slave.  Thy hidden will is my law and I shall obey thee for ever more.”   But God made no answer, and like a mighty tempest passed away.   And after a thousand years I ascended the holy mountai...