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What Wonder is this?


I stand so small in this big wide world.
Looking up to the heavens; stars in vast array.
What wonder is this too much to contemplate?
Does my life matter in this amazing creation?
Where does my destiny lie? Where will it end?
How can my mind take in this infinite wisdom?
To think man in his arrogance can ignore all this.

I stand here in awe of God,
Just a speck of dust in the universe,
Just one person in the sea of humanity,
Yet, what I do and say, does make a difference.
What wonder is this mysterious paradox?
One day all my questions will be answered,
All will be revealed in eternity.

What have I learnt in 58 years on this earth? Simple: ” the humility to know that I do not have all the answers to life”… I wrote this poem a few years ago and my view has not changed :

What Wonder is this?
by Simon Icke Uk

Copyright Simon Icke @ 2013

Saddest poem


I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. 

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.” 

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. 

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. 

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? 

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her. 

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. 

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me. 

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her. 

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me. 

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer. 

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. 

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. 

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long. 

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her. 

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Pablo Neruda
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