saywasp
noise dept.
KIROKAZE
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
Cosmic Funnies
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Today's Document
The Stonewall Inn
Doug Jones
hello vonnie
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

oozey mess
untitled

blake kathryn
Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!

Andulka

Origami Around
todays bird
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saywasp

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Amman, Jordan, 2005
Mickey Crisp
“..the June nights are long and warm; the roses flowering; and the garden full of lust and bees..”
— Virginia Woolf in a letter to Vanessa Bell c. June 1926

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Charles Baudelaire, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Charles Baudelaire
People aren't homes, they never will be. People are rivers, always changing, forever flowing. They will disappear with everything you put inside them.
Nikita Gill
The light
Nikki Giovanni, The Collected Poetry, 1968-1998
Granada
At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting, How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before. Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing, Generating after-effects from the past ages afore. Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring, She said: Granada is the city where I was born. Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering, In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore. And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying, Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour. How strange is history, how is it to me returning? A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore. With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing, The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Suad once more. I saw a room in our old house with a clearing, Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor. And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining, With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendor. Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore. In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore. In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming, Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour. She came with me and her hair behind her flowing, Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow. The long earrings on her neck were glittering, Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow. Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding, And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row. The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing, And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow. She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing, Read on its walls my glories that shine and show. Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering, And in my heart anointed another that refused to go. If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing, The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago. When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going, I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.
-Nizar Qabbani

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Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “Instructions for Traveling West”
— Franz Kafka
Virginia Woolf, from her novel titled "The Waves," originally published in 1931
The Awakening Of The Poet, Gabriel Ferrier (1899)

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Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter featured in The Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay