Welcome in this oasis of serenity. I love old cemetaries. So that's why i create this blog. Beautiful statues (stone angels), old tombstones and peaceful quietness invite you to reflect on life and death. No, i am not tired of life, i don't wanna die yet, but i love this melancholic feeling i get when wandering about these places. The mystery of life and death. Wander with me.......

Friday, March 30, 2012

Spring day

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.
The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

Spring day by Amy Lowell  (From: Men, women and ghosts 1916)

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The end of summer


Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Monna Innominata (I dream of you, to wake)

I dream of you, to wake: would that I might 
Dream of you and not wake but slumber on; 
Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone, 
As, Summer ended, Summer birds take flight. 
In happy dreams I hold you full in night. 
I blush again who waking look so wan; 
Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone, 
In happy dreams your smile makes day of night. 
Thus only in a dream we are at one, 
Thus only in a dream we give and take 
The faith that maketh rich who take or give; 
If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake, 
To die were surely sweeter than to live, 
Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.

Poetry by Christina Rossetti

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

As flowers die

The sick rose by William Blake

O rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm
that flies in the night
In the howling storm
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Friday, December 18, 2009

A step

Photograph by Jeff Maio


On the other side of darkness,
far away there shines a light,
A light to end all sorrow,
A light to be ever free,
A light for a new tomorrow
A light for you and me

On the other side of darkness,
far away there shines a light,
A light which gives out joy,
A light which is made of love,
A light which minds employ,
That light in heaven above

On the other side of darkness,
far away there shines a light
A light which bathes mans mind
in the wisdom of eternal flame
That which will redeem mankind
And make the highest truths plain

Raja Sivaji


Sunday, November 1, 2009

Rain before dawn

Photograph: Angel in the rain by Tim Oliver Husser.

The dull, faint patter in the drooping hours
Drifts in upon my sleep and fills my hair
With damp; the burden of the heavy air
Is strewn upon me where my tired soul cowers,
Shrinking like some lone queen in empty towers
Dying. Blind with unrest I grow aware:
The pounding of broad wings drifts down the stair
And sates me like the heavy scent of flowers.

I lie upon my heart. My eyes like hands
Grip at the soggy pillow. Now the dawn
Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse
Of night; lead-eyed and moist she straggles o'er the lawn,
Between the curtains brooding stares and stands
Like some drenched swimmer --
Death's within the house!

Poem by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Last sunrays

I saw your face
enlightened by the last sunrays.
Distant worlds burn like fire in your eyes.
Where do you wander my beloved one?

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Warm colours and cold stones

I like to keep this blog black and white with some faint colurs now and then, but when it's fall here in Holland and i love to place autumn photographs, this blog shall have more colours than usual. :-)

Saturday, October 3, 2009