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The Girl in Church

I can't concentrate in church
My hard heart is beginning to clutch
The transparent porch
Of the image of the girl in church

My fingers would freeze on the piano
As my eyes catches a glimpse of the rainbow
Moving graciously in a row
Of the singers of soprano

A little while my heart is at rest
And suddenly beats with sorrowful zest
As if a higher force is making jest
Of me or is it a test?

Why won't she just go away
To a faraway place and stay
Until the lions eat up the hay
And my heart has no more a day

Should mount Everest be at sea level
And my heart becomes a castle
I would be free from this evil
Lingering torturing and consuming the strength of my heart's cradle

Why has my heart become a fertile ground
For the seed of lust which abound
In its midst and mound
Of desire gathering momentum around

I should be glad if I become free
Of this shackles lingering for eternity
Yanking off the chains with alacrity
I will be glad I am free

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Last few words: 
the girl in church............
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Enjoyable flow of imagination of a jovial and funny good fellow. Both author and poetry are enjoyable and may keep high mood.I do not know if you really studied at the light of a candle or is just a poetical figure of style. Also, in a church or cathedral there are fired many candles to see the Light. Amazing and amusing, indeed.

Mario Vitale

thanks sir


author comment

the great joy of growing very old is at last he was free from lust, and could finally think without this impediment.I think he called it his "hunchback". I am getting old, but not reached that yet! Or, as Schopenhauer said a few hundred years ago, until the age of 35 a man is a giant penis. He spends the next 35 considering his demise and ultimate death.

Your poem is nicely crafted. So whereas I sympathize with you, I might suggest you follow your passion a bit and enjoy the feeling of lust and seeking courtship. It's what all the singing of the birds is about. There will be time to sit by the fire...although written about a woman, Yeats put it perfectly

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

One day you will be free. Today, go rejoice in the dancehalls of your dreams.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings



author comment
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