an old writer and his words

  • BEAUTY

    The rose no more knowsits own beautythan the chrysanthemumdoes its scent.The birds will carry the seeds,the bees will pollinate the flowersbut it is left to usto recognize the abject beautynature willingly unfoldsbefore us, it is ourEden, small momentsof perfection which weso often ignore, which weunthinkingly lay waste to,and we who must learnto mourn what we…

    Lou Faber

  • MORNING SONG (Awdl Gywydd)

    The sun creeps down city streetsdew retreats from the grassesand fills the air, with sweet scentuntil spent, the bus passes. The robin sits in the treeas worms flee into the lawn.The morning foretells the rainthat will slowly drain the dawn. The city quietly wakesand stretching, shakes off the sleepit slowly comes back to life,the sun…

    Lou Faber

  • FELIS CATUS

    When you live with the cat,which is to say when a catallows you to live in her home,you quickly learn a wholenew language, a few words hers,mono- or bisyllabic, words for yes,food, brush, clean up my litter,and in our case even thank you, rarely used.And you expand your own vocabularyas well, for English is often…

    Lou Faber

  • THEM, AGAIN

    They say that you shouldnever approach or toucha small bird, lest it he shunned,perhaps to death, by your scent. I’ve never been one to listento any “them” with whom Icannot argue face to face,and so seeing the small bird on the ground curledin its nest, staring upat the branch from whichshe parachuted groundward I scoop…

    Lou Faber