Chopping Wood And Carrying Water; -)

Poem By Chuy Amante

From Christianity's symbols we create the world,
It is the West's culture code to contrive their reality,
The root of all religions is the same, and this energy
Has the capability to transcend us into a bliss of eternity,
This is our destiny, the reason why we put up with the dream;
Willing understanding is love, four duplicated summers
Show themselves individually innumerable, the inevitable consequence
Of rediscovering the sequence in a different form, another experience within our dream;
Salve utterings of apprehending the noble malignity of a new found recovery,
Breath, like a vein, our thoughts of oxygen, transports us into experience of unfounding.

Whisker-leaf, half sleep, ignoring an eastern artificial breeze, burning coal from a grudge
Without the sweetness of memories and the understanding of now, our power,
We flower again and conquer what was hidden, what the true love of myself was,
Gathering over a neutral arrival, ignored, i reclaim my breath, and finally conjoin ferth!

Comments about Chopping Wood And Carrying Water; -)

You are very right. This poem removes ignorance and brings love ahead for humanity. The root of all religions is the same, and this energy has the capability to transcend us into a bliss of eternity. This energy is super cosmic power and we call this energy as God. He is our father of eternity and ocean of love, peace and bliss....10


5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of AMANTE

Seeking Byzantium

My mind is a wasteland of eternal fantasy
And to see, is to hustle mirages of old age
Bowing to youth in despairing barbarity.
I am no more than a silhouette evoked with rage;

Alone On This Site

The Sun has not yet rose.
In this endless night
On this Earth I roam,
I am one, alone.

Rivers Of The Universe

Rivers of the Universe
Exile marble neophytes
In ducts faithless as Dawn:
Such freedom condemned to verse,

To The Black Muse

O' watery Muse of transparency!
Entwined within exaltation's summit
Eclipsing, from throats, vales of poesy
For the will of a canopying Hermit,

The 9th Song

We hold divinity upon our fingertips
And destiny within the cresses of our lips;
The embryo of desire, beyond sense,
Unlock's memory's key to existence—

Virginal Boy

Then, with a weak hand, he wrote:
‘I must stop dreaming, I am nearly seventeen,
To forge that grand old age bespoke
I mustn't rest in an evocation wisdom has yet seen