I am his Cup
and if he press me to his Lips
shall he find me empty?

His Promise am I
and if he hold me to his Heart
shall I not be kept?

I am his Dream
and if I lie all night in his Arms
shall he not find me come true in the Morning?

.:|Xi'a|:.


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

The Waste Land

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only 
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only 
There is shadow under this red rock, 
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), 
And I will show you something different from either 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you 
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

.:|selection from the poem by T. S. Eliot|:.