My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congeal'd with senseless cold,
Should Kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kind.
My Love is like to ice, and I to fire by Edmund Spenser
Life after Death (I)
There's life,
brimming with exuberant playfulness,
juvenile mind swarming with
artistic progressive panorama of the world,
insomniac glimpses
blurring in and out of technicolor reveries.
There's ingenuity
thriving and flowing
through the veins of mortal being.
There are jejune abstractions too,
palpitating and prevailing
in this perishable body,
smirking everytime
the mind raises it's blinds
to an euphoric imagination,
reminding we are human after all,
having sprung to life and
ineluctably returning to the crust,
lifeless,
with this body which has experienced
years of turmoil, ups and downs,
riped and puerile thoughts.
Inscribed on the sempiternal soul,
they symbolise the verity of
the sprightly withering heart.
The soul harbouring
mellow and fatuous
flicker of light.
With so much vigor within,
can death outstrip life?
When the soul is brittle,
hope is the fire
that still burns within,
prevailing and ensuring
a triumphant fight.
When hope crashes,
there's Life
still standing
upright, unscathed, unbreakable.
When death comes for you, there's still Life.
When the earth engulfs
the mortal body,
crushing the bones,
decomposing the flesh and organs,
Life is the fire torch
blazing with a thunderous flame
paving way to a new beginning.
There's still Life after Death.
27-1-20
Painting: The Dessert: Harmony in Red (1908) by Henri Matisse
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