Yaseen

“Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one.”
― Terry Pratchett

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

“يا رَبِّ إِن عَظُمَت ذُنوبي كَثرَةً
فَلَقَد عَلِمتُ بِأَنَّ عَفوَكَ أَعظَمُ
إِن كانَ لا يَرجوكَ إِلّا مُحسِنٌ
فَبِمَن يَلوذُ وَيَستَجيرُ المُجرِمُ
أَدعوكَ رَبِّ كَما أَمَرتَ تَضَرُّعاً
فَإِذا رَدَدتَ يَدي فَمَن ذا يَرحَمُ
ما لي إِلَيكَ وَسيلَةٌ إِلا الرَجا
وَجَميلُ عَفوِكَ ثُمَّ أَنّي مُسلِمُ”
― أبو نواس, ديوان أبي نواس

“Sonnet: Political Greatness

Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.”
― Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Complete Poems