The Tree, by J. W. Cassandra. My short story was written during the brushwood-fires of Australia. I recommend it to my dear friend, Ritika Nahata. The short novel belongs to my volume of short stories titled “Masquerade of Cycle of Existence”. This is its Hungarian version.
The Tree, by J. W. Cassandra. My short story was written during the brushwood-fires of Australia. I recommend it to my dear friend, Ritika Nahata. The short novel belongs to my volume of short stories titled “Masquerade of Cycle of Existence”. This is its Hungarian version.
The Tree, by J. W. Cassandra. My short story was written during the brushwood-fires of Australia. I recommend it to my dear friend, Ritika Nahata. The short novel belongs to my volume of short stories titled “Masquerade of Cycle of Existence”. Its Hungarian version I will share after the English one.
The Tree, by J. W. Cassandra. My short story was written during the brushwood-fires of Australia. I recommend it to my dear friend, Ritika Nahata. The short novel belongs to my volume of short stories titled “Masquerade of Cycle of Existence”. Its Hungarian version I will share after the English one.
The Tree, by J. W. Cassandra. My short story was written during the brushwood-fires of Australia. I recommend it to my dear friend, Ritika Nahata. The short novel belongs to my volume of short stories titled “Masquerade of Cycle of Existence”. Its Hungarian version I will share after the English one.
The Tree, by J. W. Cassandra. My short story was written during the brushwood-fires of Australia. I recommend it to my dear friend, Ritika Nahata. The short novel belongs to my volume of short stories titled “Masquerade of Cycle of Existence”. Its Hungarian version I will share after the English one.
If only I had known you were going to come in my life, I would have welcomed my demons of the past …
With her arms around me I suddenly noticed that she gasped for air while her head was resting on my shoulders. It felt like she was afraid that she’d never get the chance to submit…
I awakened from my deep slumber into a world you may not understand. I don’t quite understand it either. In fact, I don’t understand a lot of the immediate events that are about to occur.
The tired and weary horse came to a halt, Lonely, scared, confused, I stood, Under the dreamy sky, Stars twinkling like diamonds, Sparkling moonlight through a cranny in the shroud of mist, Dew drops glistening…
I walk with a blindfold on my eyes, Earphone in my ears, To silence the judgement of the society, I bought things i didn’t need to impress people I don’t like, I took the high…
Emily Dickinson, through this poem, tries to find an answer to the question, “Why do I love?”. And this “You” and “sir” could be a reference to God as well.
Throughout the poem, she keeps asserting that there is no reason for her love for him. It comes naturally to her and is a very part of her existence.
If the poet had the beautifully decorated cloths of heaven made with golden, silver and dark light he would spread them under his beloved’s path. But he is poor and can’t give her beautiful clothes. He can give her only his dreams. Therefore he has spread his dreams on her way. And he requests her to walk softly because his dreams may be broken easily. The poet wishes he had the cloths of heaven.