درخت و کتاب
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که آخری بود آخر شبان یلدا را
که آخری بود آخر شبان یلدا را
Forwarded from کالیایف
درخت و کتاب
امروز ۲۹ آوریل و ۹ اردیبهشت، روز جهانی رقصه.
برقصید، حتا با غصه. با همهچیز.
Forwarded from کالیایف
“We all have our la-la-la song. The thing we do when the world isn’t singing a nice tune to us. We sing our own nice tune to drown out ugly. Fern and I colored and sang.”
- Rita Williams-Garcia
- One Crazy Summer
- Rita Williams-Garcia
- One Crazy Summer
Forwarded from کالیایف
میلان کوندرا خیلی بازیگوش و بانمکه. پس از مدتها دوباره دارم یکی از کتابهاش رو میخونم و حس میکنم یک پیرمرد خوشمشرب نشسته کنارم، با جدیت حرف میزنه و با همون جدیت کاری میکنه قهقهه بزنم. 🦆
Forwarded from کانون مطالعات و نشر اندیشه
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I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish you sat on the sofa
and I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish I knew no astronomy
when stars appear,
when the moon skims the water
that sighs and shifts in its slumber.
I wish it were still a quarter
to dial your number.
I wish you were here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It's evening, the sun is setting;
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What's the point of forgetting
if it's followed by dying?
—Joseph Brodsky, A Song
@kmnag
I wish you were here.
I wish you sat on the sofa
and I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish I knew no astronomy
when stars appear,
when the moon skims the water
that sighs and shifts in its slumber.
I wish it were still a quarter
to dial your number.
I wish you were here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It's evening, the sun is setting;
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What's the point of forgetting
if it's followed by dying?
—Joseph Brodsky, A Song
@kmnag