Divider
Seraphim
- Член од
- 24 февруари 2005
- Мислења
- 27.337
- Поени од реакции
- 3.062
Q
Long have I stood forlorn as forgotten
In dark graments clad like a spectre
Deep was I inside lost, as I was unsound
Unforgiving, without life, as dead
And when tried measuring people
Why I never found me as wanting?
Unlived, without merit and ashamed
Such that I gave none I did not ever forgot?
How did I came to this?
Why are my dawns not rising?
How did we came to this or
Have we found ourselves too brazen?
Shall we embrace our darkened souls
And have our suns be blood red dying?
And our moons be in shame unforgiving
'till we crumble, in the wind as ashes, to dust?
Long have I stood forlorn as forgotten
In dark graments clad like a spectre
Deep was I inside lost, as I was unsound
Unforgiving, without life, as dead
And when tried measuring people
Why I never found me as wanting?
Unlived, without merit and ashamed
Such that I gave none I did not ever forgot?
How did I came to this?
Why are my dawns not rising?
How did we came to this or
Have we found ourselves too brazen?
Shall we embrace our darkened souls
And have our suns be blood red dying?
And our moons be in shame unforgiving
'till we crumble, in the wind as ashes, to dust?
--- надополнето ---
The lonely river’s true course
She’s as the pale moonlight’s breath, which
Sires unspoken desires and unsaid sorrows,
Yet tears of mother pearls follow, and
Broken, as fallen, or drowned on the shallows
Sometimes she is one and of no one
Yet more so she is of none and of all,
Blood of children’s joy
How can she be true as golden?
So true, for a truer form can never be
Lifelike on death’s galley or a boat,
Or fallen upward against reason
Nay, to see or say, it must be folly or treason
Nor can she flow upstream,
Tied fates, chained watery destinies,
On Styx, a boatman’s call
She stops, listening to her true river’s course
She’s as the pale moonlight’s breath, which
Sires unspoken desires and unsaid sorrows,
Yet tears of mother pearls follow, and
Broken, as fallen, or drowned on the shallows
Sometimes she is one and of no one
Yet more so she is of none and of all,
Blood of children’s joy
How can she be true as golden?
So true, for a truer form can never be
Lifelike on death’s galley or a boat,
Or fallen upward against reason
Nay, to see or say, it must be folly or treason
Nor can she flow upstream,
Tied fates, chained watery destinies,
On Styx, a boatman’s call
She stops, listening to her true river’s course