guan (Gast) - 29. Dez, 22:49

der tod ist angst
und tugend
zugleich...

er treibt sich zeitlebens um,
uns permanent,
umumwunden -
verletzen wollend -
erklären zu wollen:
e r wäre d e r,
welcher letztlich
befreit...

das wunder ist:
e r ist doch nur
ein schein,
augenblicklicher dämon
unserer eigenen,
scheinbar wohl
vorhandenen
unvergänglichkeit...

(das gaia-prinzip greift...)

-

danke.
und hoffentlich
ein besseres jahr.
(sehr vom herzen...)

TheSource - 20. Jan, 10:48

Det Tod, lieber Freund, weist niemanden zurück.
Niemand liebt so gänzlich, so bedingungslos, so heilend wie er.
guan (Gast) - 20. Jan, 18:51

der tod ist nicht
von ewigkeit.
TheSource - 20. Jan, 21:22

Was stützt

diese Behauptung?
guan (Gast) - 26. Jan, 14:43

nichts.

nur unsere eigne sichtweise
hindert uns selbst daran
ganz andere dinge einfach
intuitiv erfassen zu wollen...

(solange gelehrte nicht umdenken können,
solange leben wir im mittelalter der torheite
TheSource - 28. Jan, 08:38

Dieses Argument ist

unzureichend. Paradoxerweise dies:
Das Leben ist ewig - der Tod ist ewig.

Before the beginning of years,
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;
Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death.
And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years;
And froth and drift of the sea;
And dust of the laboring earth;
And bodies of things to be
In the houses of death and birth;
And wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashioned with loathing and love,
With life before and after,
And death below and above,
For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a span,
With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.
From the winds of the north and the south,
They gathered as unto strife;
They breathed upon his mouth,
They filled his body with life;
Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein,
A time for labor and thought,
A time to serve and to sin;
They gave him light in his ways,
And love, and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,
And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;
In his heart is a blind desire,
In his eyes foreknowledge of death;
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;
His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.


[ A. C. Swinburne, Chorus from 'Atalanta in Calydon']

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