"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." Theodore Roosevelt

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Mountain Song































The first few steps into the shade and out of the sun,
sensation of escape from one reality into a more true, somehow more noble throne,
away from the traffic of the so called real world, let it all come undone.

My ears are kissed by song of summer cicadas and crickets happy jigs,
the noise of ripples on the pond and the arresting feeling of the unknown,
the perfect combination of adventure and control, the deeper the depth, here, my soul can dig.

The swirling leaves and blossoming buds hum a symphony,
these noises combined create a song older than time stronger than bone,
without careful silence and respectable awe all of this would be unknown to me.



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