Rivers

Our lives are rivers, gliding free

To that unfathomed, boundless, sea,

The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.
Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill,
There all are equal; side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.

Nuestras vidas son los ríos
que van a dar en la mar,
que es el morir.
Allí van los señoríos
derechos a se acabar
e consumir.
allí los ríos caudales,
allí los otros medianos
e más chicos,
allegados, son iguales
los que viven por sus manos
e los ricos.

from «Coplas por la Muerte de su Padre» «Stanzas about the Death of his Father» by Jorge Manrique

«Twigs» by Taha Muhammad Ali

Neither music,
fame, nor wealth,
not even poetry itself,
could provide consolation
for life’s brevity,
or the fact that King Lear
is a mere eighty pages long and comes to an end,
and for the thought that one might suffer greatly
on account of a rebellious child.
—
My love for you
is what’s magnificent,
but I, you, and the others,
most likely,
are ordinary people.
—
My poem
goes beyond poetry
because you
exist
beyond the realm of women.
—
And so
it has taken me
all of sixty years
to understand
that water is the finest drink,
and bread the most delicious food,
and that art is worthless
unless it plants
a measure of splendor in people’s hearts.
—
After we die,
and the weary heart
has lowered its final eyelid
on all that we’ve done,
and on all that we’ve long for,
on all that we’ve dreamt of,
all we’ve desired
or felt,
hate will be
the first thing
to putrefy
within us.

– Taha Muhammad Ali

http://reflections.yale.edu/article/divine-radiance-keeping-faith-beauty/twigs