We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw, Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;
—T.S. Eliot
These lines are haunting. Can you hear the voices of mankind whispering into the wind? Can you feel the sense of waste from knowing that our voices somehow do not make it past our own lips, rendering our words meaningless?
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1 comment:
eve sum bre alpin :-) milo mi e sto ti se sviga norveska.Pred nekoj den bev vo oslo vo Jesus house..prvo nesto sto mi tekna e :ova e ona za sto Alpin sonuva.Komuna na hristijani vo najtarata zgrada vo oslo sto bukvalno izgleda na manastir..preubavo.Kako i da uzivam da citam kako pisuvas i konecno sega mozam i da komentiram:-)
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