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The sun don't shine
The moon don't move the tides,
To wash me clean
The sun don't shine
The moon don't move the tides
To wash me clean
Why so unforgiving, and why so cold
Been a long time crossing Bridge of Sighs
Cold wind blows
The Gods look down in anger,
On this poor child
Cold wind blows
And Gods look down in anger,
On this poor child
Why so unforgiving and why so cold
Been a long time crossing Bridge of Sighs
Happy Sunday Everyone!!!
When this freedom stains my coat
With the winter in my throat
When I'm lost I dig the dirt
When I fall I drive the hearse
And silence is another way
Of saying what I wanna say
And lying is another way
Of hoping it will go away
And you were always my mistake...
Given time I fix the roof
Given cash I speak the truth
And silence is another way
Of saying what I wanna say
And lying is another way
Of hoping it will go away
And you were always my mistake...
When I'm down I drive the hearse
When this boredom wears me out
Then the sky begins to cloud
Sleeping with my ball and chain
When she cries I take the blame
And pride is just another way
Of trying to live with my mistakes
Denial is a better way
Of getting through another day
And silence is another way
Of saying what I wanna say
And lying is another way
Of hoping it will go away
And you we're always my mistake...
When I'm down I drive the hearse
Such a pale light
Such a long night
Pick up that key
Don't drop your gaze in your coffee
Is it me?
Do I look beautiful in the half light?
It's been so long
Years have gone
Since I belonged
Hold me please
Stay with me
And I will sleep
I will go now
But I will be with you
Hold my gaze
Hold me inside you
I'm tired of weakness, tired of my feet of clay
I'm tired of days to come, I'm tired of yesterday
And all the worn out things that I ever said
Now it's much too late, the words stay in my head
So the day will begin again
Take comfort from me, it's up to you now
You're still here, and you'll dig in again
That's comfort to you, it's up to you now
So Pariah, you'll begin again
Take comfort from me
And I will take comfort from you
I'm tired of Facebook, tired of my failing health
I'm tired of everyone and that includes myself
Well being alone now it doesn't bother me
But not knowing if you are, well that's been hell you see
So the day will begin again
Take comfort from me, it's up to you now
You're still here, and you'll dig in again
That's comfort to you, it's up to you now
So Pariah, you'll begin again
Take comfort from me
It will take time
Don't you worry, don't worry about a thing
'Cause nothing really dies, nothing really ends
You think I deserve this
You said I was stupid
All my thoughts are like coal
But Russia on ice is burning a hole
Can't stop myself drinking
Can't stop being me
If I call will you come and will you save me?
I see the whole thing come down
I burn it to the ground
Well what the hell did you say?
You said you hate me this way
It's just a matter of time
A drop in the ocean
A significant motion
Nothing melts in this cold
But Russia on ice is burning a hole
It occurs to me that some of the youngsters didn't get the joke
so this here's for the kids
This is dedicated to several people who have passed on...they know who they were
and so do I ... I will never forget
and so do I ... I will never forget
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A Sincere Man
A sincere man am I
From the land where palm trees grow,
And I want before I die
My soul's verses to bestow.
I'm a traveller to all parts,
And a newcomer to none:
I am art among the arts,
With the mountains I am one.
I know how to name and class
All the strange flowers that grow;
I know every blade of grass,
Fatal lie and sublime woe.
I have seen through dead of night
Upon my head softly fall,
Rays formed of the purest light
From beauty celestial.
I have seen wings that were surging
From beautiful women's shoulders,
And seen butterflies emerging
From the refuse heap that moulders.
I have known a man to live
With a dagger at his side,
And never once the name give
Of she by whose hand he died.
Twice, for an instant, did I
My soul's reflection espy:
Twice: when my poor father died
And when she bade me good-bye.
I trembled once, when I flung
The vineyard gate, and to my dread,
The wicked hornet had stung
My little girl on the forehead.
I rejoiced once and felt lucky
The day that my jailer came
To read the death warrant to me
That bore his tears and my name.
I hear a sigh across the earth,
I hear a sigh over the deep:
It is no sign reaching my hearth,
But my son waking from sleep.
If they say I have obtained
The pick of the jeweller's trove,
A good friend is what I've gained
And I have put aside love.
I have seen across the skies
A wounded eagle still flying;
I know the cubby where lies
The snake of its venom dying.
I know that the world is weak
And must soon fall to the ground,
Then the gentle brook will speak
Above the quiet profound.
While trembling with joy and dread,
I have touched with hand so bold
A once-bright star that fell dead
From heaven at my threshold.
On my brave heart is engraved
The sorrow hidden from all eyes:
The son of a land enslaved,
Lives for it, suffers and dies.
All is beautiful and right,
All is as music and reason;
And all, like diamonds, is light
That was coal before its season.
I know when fools are laid to rest
Honor and tears will abound,
And that of all fruits, the best
Is left to rot in holy ground.
Without a word, the pompous muse
I've set aside, and understood:
From a withered branch, I choose
To hang my doctoral hood.
- José Martí
José Martí was born in Havana, on January 28, 1853, to a sergeant of the Spanish garrison who had retired to become a watchman and his wife from the Canary Islands. Rafael María Mendive (1821-1886), a poet and educational reformer, convinced Marti’s father to let his son study at a secondary school and underwrote the costs himself. Jose later attended the Instituto de Havana (1866-1869) where he worked on the underground periodicals "El Diablo Cojuelo" and "La Patria Libre."
A world renowned poet and journalist Mr Martí was forced into exile by the Spanish several times
and was finally killed on May 19th, 1895 in Dos Rios, Cuba after being convinced by the great
warrior Antonio Maceo, the Bronze Titan, that writing words of freedom was not enough
and he should put his blood on the line. He did.
A sincere man am I
From the land where palm trees grow,
And I want before I die
My soul's verses to bestow.
I'm a traveller to all parts,
And a newcomer to none:
I am art among the arts,
With the mountains I am one.
I know how to name and class
All the strange flowers that grow;
I know every blade of grass,
Fatal lie and sublime woe.
I have seen through dead of night
Upon my head softly fall,
Rays formed of the purest light
From beauty celestial.
I have seen wings that were surging
From beautiful women's shoulders,
And seen butterflies emerging
From the refuse heap that moulders.
I have known a man to live
With a dagger at his side,
And never once the name give
Of she by whose hand he died.
Twice, for an instant, did I
My soul's reflection espy:
Twice: when my poor father died
And when she bade me good-bye.
I trembled once, when I flung
The vineyard gate, and to my dread,
The wicked hornet had stung
My little girl on the forehead.
I rejoiced once and felt lucky
The day that my jailer came
To read the death warrant to me
That bore his tears and my name.
I hear a sigh across the earth,
I hear a sigh over the deep:
It is no sign reaching my hearth,
But my son waking from sleep.
If they say I have obtained
The pick of the jeweller's trove,
A good friend is what I've gained
And I have put aside love.
I have seen across the skies
A wounded eagle still flying;
I know the cubby where lies
The snake of its venom dying.
I know that the world is weak
And must soon fall to the ground,
Then the gentle brook will speak
Above the quiet profound.
While trembling with joy and dread,
I have touched with hand so bold
A once-bright star that fell dead
From heaven at my threshold.
On my brave heart is engraved
The sorrow hidden from all eyes:
The son of a land enslaved,
Lives for it, suffers and dies.
All is beautiful and right,
All is as music and reason;
And all, like diamonds, is light
That was coal before its season.
I know when fools are laid to rest
Honor and tears will abound,
And that of all fruits, the best
Is left to rot in holy ground.
Without a word, the pompous muse
I've set aside, and understood:
From a withered branch, I choose
To hang my doctoral hood.
- José Martí
José Martí was born in Havana, on January 28, 1853, to a sergeant of the Spanish garrison who had retired to become a watchman and his wife from the Canary Islands. Rafael María Mendive (1821-1886), a poet and educational reformer, convinced Marti’s father to let his son study at a secondary school and underwrote the costs himself. Jose later attended the Instituto de Havana (1866-1869) where he worked on the underground periodicals "El Diablo Cojuelo" and "La Patria Libre."
A world renowned poet and journalist Mr Martí was forced into exile by the Spanish several times
and was finally killed on May 19th, 1895 in Dos Rios, Cuba after being convinced by the great
warrior Antonio Maceo, the Bronze Titan, that writing words of freedom was not enough
and he should put his blood on the line. He did.
I Have a White Rose to Tend (Verse XXXIX)
I have a white rose to tend
In July as in January;
I give it to the true friend
Who offers his frank hand to me.
And for the cruel one whose blows
Break the heart by which I live,
Thistle nor thorn do I give:
For him, too, I have a white rose.
CULTIVO UNA ROSA BLANCA... (Verso XXXIX)
Cultivo una rosa blanca,
En julio como en enero,
Para el amigo sincero
Que me da su mano franca.
Y para el cruel que me arranca
El corazón con que vivo,
Cardo ni oruga cultivo:
Cultivo la rosa blanca.
- José Martí
I have a white rose to tend
In July as in January;
I give it to the true friend
Who offers his frank hand to me.
And for the cruel one whose blows
Break the heart by which I live,
Thistle nor thorn do I give:
For him, too, I have a white rose.
CULTIVO UNA ROSA BLANCA... (Verso XXXIX)
Cultivo una rosa blanca,
En julio como en enero,
Para el amigo sincero
Que me da su mano franca.
Y para el cruel que me arranca
El corazón con que vivo,
Cardo ni oruga cultivo:
Cultivo la rosa blanca.
- José Martí
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