From where ? why ?

What is the meaning of life? The same question all with a different response for each because we are not really born equal or free. Because  of education and conditioning we are not born in the same environment nor do we receive the same education. We live some similar experiences but others quite different. Also I can only submit to you my responses as a runway for your reflection. I am open to dialog.

Nature gives us meaning to life.

Love gives us the desire to live.

Poetry sings of the life.

Our Earth-Mother structured life in ecosystems where the predation ensures balance. Unfortunately the avid modern man being able of becoming an insatiable, covetous predator and often an insane scientist. Nature offers to us the means to live so we must respect it. I will try to divide you all without mask and on the wings poetry.

« Art. Negation of human finitude.
Living without mask is desire of beauty. »
extract of “Seeds”
By Cristina Castello

Pages of Life

They are there like the cry of the newborn, with the anger of the being and the hope of becoming…
They are there like an insult to nothing… as for saying all to you.
They have order in their disorder as from chaos is born the life…

Pages of life through my first blog, preserved here since the closing of Lycos.

 And the time… which never has the time to wait and which holds us in slavery... I let pass it in my life as a bridge lets the water of the large river which carries all in its water of eternity flow and carries all those that one likes…


Why time and the money make do if good household?
Me which likes neither time nor the money,
I am the sad victim of the one and other.
Sinister round thus stops a moment!
No ! I do not want any more but you count my age!
Taken with your trap, I would be your hostage
currency of everywhere and nowhere…
With all those which you destroy,
Beings of the forests or those of the oceans
I want to make band except for,
wild man, to take again my dash,
to live safe by oak,
there to wait the night,
finally released of these chains
inhuman of gold and clocks.
Flowers I will make your praise,
Thanks to you I became wise.

It is days, it is nights when the river in rising tears off by violent streams the pillars of the bridge, the reason and peace leaving us foolish in war with ourselves. It is days, it is nights when one seeks hopelessly who he is for to rebuilt himself, for to find peace. 

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