cazzounteschio:

sturm-und-drunk:

I spent the most magical afternoon

I went for a walk in the nature, and I took a path that was completely new to me.

I kept walking, when I came across a cute house surrounded by flowers. A little child was watering the plants, and a woman insisted to offer me a glass of water. I didn’t know her, but she was a friend of my uncle’s sister, apparently. We talked for a bit, then she told me to follow her, because she wanted to show me the laboratory where her husband produces honey. There he was, working.

He gave me a piece of honeycomb to chew on, then he showed me the complete process to make honey. Finally, he gave me a jar as a gift. The woman explained to me how to go back to town, and she walked me to the bridge I would have to cross. That looked surreal too.

I feel like the house won’t be there if I ever go back. It was beautiful.

You met an ancient family of Italian fairies and you got their blessing

poemsforpersephone:

what if
when icarus fell
apollo caught him
before he hit the sea,
arms as warm as the sun,
but safer.

what if
when ariadne cast the rope
across a broken branch
aphrodite stepped in
with a reminder that this,
this is not the kind of love
you die for.

what if
when achilles
was ready for war
ares appeared with a smile
and said “you win well when you win,
but what are you unwilling
to lose if you lose?”
and achilles knew the answer.

if you could
retell the tale wouldn’t you want
to tell it kinder? wouldn’t you
want to give them peace, even love,
where you could?



l.s.
| I AM TIRED OF RE-WRITING TRAGEDY WITHOUT CHANGE. LET THEM LIVE. LET THEM LEARN. LET THEM LOVE © 2016

thewonderfullurkerofoz:

arbitrary-stag:

acamedically:

shrineofelena:

juniqs:

mahdic:

amir khusrow (1253–1325 CE)

this changed my life

this was written before the printing press was invented and it still sounds like a modern day shitpost

a form of indian poetry, keh (say) mukarni (denial) is an interesting genre of riddles played between two young women, where one of them describes something in a way that it is mistaken by the other girl as her beloved, and finally turns out to be something completely different

@sodomymcscurvylegs

what is poetry if not the memes for our foremothers