Thinker Belle

As thoughts grow in time

I Feel In Love With....A Poem :)

assalamualaikum and hey hey peeps ^^

jam menunjukkan pukul 5.30 petang
mesti ramai dah berkeroncong perut menunggu bukak puasa dua jam lagi
tambah tambah area kl hari ni hujan dok turun dari tengah hari tadi
lagi lah lapar kan?

hari ini, tuan blog terasa rajin nak mengemas bilik

cr: prettyimages (ohhh i mau letak lampu ini dalam bilik)

ehh jangan salah paham pulak yer
bilik memang tak bersepah
but i nak buang jual semua kertas kertas notes yang dah lama tersimpan sejak habis spm dulu

yelah, nak buang sayang, tapi bila dah lama sangat macam ni
rasa semak pulak, so memang selamat jalan romeo lahh ..hehe

dok mengemas tadi, terjumpa sehelai test pad yang bertajuk 'happiness'

rupa-rupanya, ia adalah poem yang i copy from an english novel waktu i duduk dekat matriks negeri sembilan dulu

but seriously, ini adalah poem favourite i yang paling complicated sekali maknanya
but i still suka ^^ hehe

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.

It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

 jane kenyon, 1947-1995

p/s: i'm not a literature major, but this is so fineee :D


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