Я разгадал тебя; и жизнь твою я разгадал
art is our friend, sometimes... an enemy
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Я разгадал тебя; и жизнь твою я разгадал > THE MORE WE LIVE THE MORE WE DIE THE MORE WE SEE THE MORE GO BLIND  14 ноября 2010 г. 14:41:28



Комментировать может только автор записи.

THE MORE WE LIVE THE MORE WE DIE THE MORE WE SEE THE MORE GO BLIND

софуко. самурайская дщерь 

Кладбище — это сад любви и сожалений,
А также лес, хранящий воспоминания дубов.
Кладбище — это луг, покрытый росой реальности,
А также поросшая мхом земля иного мира.


На самом деле, меняет вовсе не время, а боль, жужжащая внутри.



Фоновая: My dad is dead — Memory of your kiss
Если ты попал сюда в поисках фанфика, тебе сюда: http://kawaiinyash.beon.ru/22119-859-.zhtml#1
Это тебя не касается: http://kawaiinyash.beon.ru/43337-309-.zhtml
Обратите внимание на:
Тема посвящена... 17 марта 2009 г. Lenochka Tretyakova
квм14 11 февраля 2009 г. dashik3547.
овцам посвящается))) 5 сентября 2010 г. Lady Katarina
софуко. самурайская дщерь 26 ноября 2015 г. 13:29:24 постоянная ссылка ]
"Пока я рядом" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/22206-526-fa­nf-1.zhtml

Название: Пока я рядом
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro
Бета: Microsoft Word
Фендом: Наруто
Дисклеймер: Масаси Кисимото
Пейринг: Хейва/Саске
Жанр: Романтика, Ангст
Рейтинг: R
Размер: Макси
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: Закончен
Предупреждение: AU, ООС, ОС

-------------------­--------------------­--------------------­--------------------­-----------

"Мое одиночество начинается в твоих объятиях" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/25604-866-fa­nf-2.zhtml

Название: Мое одиночество начинается в твоих объятиях
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro
Бета: Microsoft Word
Фендом: Наруто
Дисклеймер: Масаси Кисимото
Пейринг: Мичи/Саске
Жанр: Романтика, Ангст, Смарм
Рейтинг: PG-13
Размер: Макси
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: Закончен
Предупреждение: OC

-------------------­--------------------­--------------------­--------------------­-----------

"Синдром одиночки" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/32120-604-fa­nf-3.zhtml

Название: Синдром одиночки
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro
Бета: Microsoft Word, odna_persona
Фендом: Наруто
Дисклеймер: Отсутствует
Пейринг: Даниэль/Ичиро
Жанр: Экшн, Дарк, Драма, Ангст
Рейтинг: PG-13
Размер: Макси
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: Заморожен
Предупреждение: AU, OC, UST

-------------------­--------------------­--------------------­--------------------­-----------

"Заточивший чувства" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/24910-398-fa­nf-4.zhtml

Название: Заточивший чувства
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro
Бета: Microsoft Word
Фендом: Наруто
Дисклеймер: Масаси Кисимото
Пейринг: Хана/Итачи
Жанр: Драма, Ангст
Рейтинг: G
Размер: Драббл
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: Закончен
Предупреждение: OC, UST

-------------------­--------------------­--------------------­--------------------­-----------

"Helena" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/24885-246-fa­nf-5.zhtml

Название: Helena
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro, идея целиком и полностью взята у www.jd-movies.com
Бета: Microsoft Word
Фендом: www.jd-movies.com
Дисклеймер: My Chemical Romance
Пейринг: Хелена/Джерард
Жанр: Романтика, Ангст, Драма
Рейтинг: G
Размер: Мини
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: Закончен
Предупреждение: AU

-------------------­--------------------­--------------------­--------------------­-----------

"Проклятая печать: Черный дракон" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/29065-188-fa­nf-6.zhtml

Название: Проклятая печать: Черный дракон
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro
Бета: Microsoft Word
Фендом: Наруто
Дисклеймер: Масаси Кисимото
Пейринг: Йоши/Дейдара
Жанр: Драма, Ангст, Романтика
Рейтинг: PG
Размер: Миди/Макси
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: ?
Предупреждение: ООС, ОС

-------------------­--------------------­--------------------­--------------------­-----------

"Розы, что никогда не цветут" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/43337-102-fa­nf-7.zhtml

Название: Розы, что никогда не цветут
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro
Бета: Microsoft Word
Фендом: Отсутствует
Дисклеймер: Отсутствует
Пейринг: Инкогнито/Инкогнито­
Жанр: Драмма, Философия
Рейтинг: G
Размер: Драббл
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: Закончен
Предупреждение: Отсутствуют

-------------------­--------------------­--------------------­--------------------­-----------

"...и взлетела крыса" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/43337-104-fa­nf-8.zhtml

Название: ...и взлетела крыса
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro
Бета: Microsoft Word
Фендом: Thor (Тор)
Дисклеймер: Marvel Comics
Пейринг: Отсутствует
Жанр: Драмма, Психология
Рейтинг: G
Размер: Драббл
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: Закончен
Предупреждение: ООС

-------------------­--------------------­--------------------­--------------------­-----------

"Три чувства" http://kawaiinyash.­beon.ru/43337-105-fa­nf-9.zhtml

Название: Три чувства
Автор: ­Sofya Toshiro
Бета: Microsoft Word
Фендом: Тор, Мстители
Дисклеймер: Marvel Comics
Пейринг: Отсутствует
Жанр: Джен, Психология, Драмма
Рейтинг: G
Размер: Мини
Размещение: С моего разрешения!
Статус: Закончен
Предупреждение: ООС
софуко. самурайская дщерь 27 ноября 2015 г. 14:02:10 постоянная ссылка ]
Вылезай из поношенной кожи,
Без оглядки по кругу беги.
Отрекайся сейчас, если сможешь,
И взамен ничего не проси.

И надев свои старые крылья,
Стой у зеркала как идиот,
Отключив домофон и мобильный,
Чтоб никто не прервал твой полёт.

Пожалеешь, доверившись другу,
Обломав обломаешься сам.
Если кто-то подал тебе руку,
Опасайся пойти по рукам.

Ты боишься и хочешь свободы
Или, жизнь сокращая на треть,
Принимаешь лекарства от рвоты,
Чтоб хоть как-то всё это терпеть.

Целый день, умирая без дела
Или делая всё вопреки,
Засыпаешь,
Разбитое тело
Уронив в белый снег простыни.

Пожалеешь, доверившись другу,
Обломав обломаешься сам.
Если кто-то подал тебе руку,
Опасайся пойти по рукам.
софуко. самурайская дщерь 1 декабря 2015 г. 08:03:42 постоянная ссылка ]
Кто посадил на кладбище иву?
Плачут листья, поддавшись дождям.
Обняв ветвями промозглую почву,
Она, склоняясь, внимает богам.

Кто посадил на кладбище иву?
Глубоко ее корни ползут.
Мертвецы, что идут ей на пищу,
Красоты, увы, не дают.

Кто посадил на кладбище иву?
Безымянный крест ее друг.
Сколь декад, а оба не знают,
Что могилу собой стерегут.

Кто посадил на кладбище иву,
Того уж нету давно.
Посадил он ее, чтоб хоть кто-то
Оплакивал труп под землей.
софуко. самурайская дщерь 25 декабря 2015 г. 14:01:44 постоянная ссылка ]
Эдгар А. По

1

Слышишь, сани мчатся в ряд,
Мчатся в ряд!
Колокольчики звенят,
Серебристым легким звоном слух наш сладостно томят,
Этим пеньем и гуденьем о забвенье говорят.
О, как звонко, звонко, звонко,
Точно звучный смех ребенка,
В ясном воздухе ночном
Говорят они о том,
Что за днями заблужденья
Наступает возрожденье,
Что волшебно наслажденье — наслажденье нежным сном.
Сани мчатся, мчатся в ряд,
Колокольчики звенят,
Звезды слушают, как сани, убегая, говорят,
И, внимая им, горят,
И мечтая, и блистая, в небе духами парят;
И изменчивым сияньем,
Молчаливым обаяньем,
Вместе с звоном, вместе с пеньем, о забвенье говорят


2

Слышишь к свадьбе зов святой,
Золотой!
Сколько нежного блаженства в этой песне молодой!
Сквозь спокойный воздух ночи
Словно смотрят чьи-то очи
И блестят,
Из волны певучих звуков на луну они глядят.
Из призывных дивных келий,
Полны сказочных веселий,
Нарастая, упадая, брызги светлые летят.
Вновь потухнут, вновь блестят
И роняют светлый взгляд
На грядущее, где дремлет безмятежность нежных снов,
Возвещаемых согласьем золотых колоколов!


3

Слышишь, воющий набат,
Точно стонет медный ад!
Эти звуки, в дикой муке, сказку ужасов твердят.
Точно молят им помочь,
Крик кидают прямо в ночь,
Прямо в уши темной ночи
Каждый звук,
То длиннее, то короче,
Выкликает свой испуг,—
И испуг их так велик,
Так безумен каждый крик,
Что разорванные звоны, неспособные звучать,
Могут только биться, виться и кричать, кричать, кричать!
Только плакать о пощаде
И к пылающей громаде
Вопли скорби обращать!
А меж тем огонь безумный,
И глухой и многошумный,
Все горит,
То из окон, то по крыше,
Мчится выше, выше, выше,
И как будто говорит:
Я хочу
Выше мчаться, разгораться — встречу лунному лучу,—
Иль умру, иль тотчас-тотчас вплоть до месяца взлечу!
О, набат, набат, набат,
Если б ты вернул назад
Этот ужас, это пламя, эту искру, этот взгляд,
Этот первый взгляд огня,
О котором ты вещаешь, с плачем, с воплем и звеня!
А теперь нам нет спасенья,
Всюду пламя и кипенье,
Всюду страх и возмущенье!
Твой призыв,
Диких звуков несогласность
Возвещает нам опасность,—
То растет беда глухая, то спадает, как прилив!
Слух наш чутко ловит волны в перемене звуковой,
Вновь спадает, вновь рыдает медно-стонущий прибой.


4

Похоронный слышен звон,
Долгий звон!
Горькой скорби слышны звуки, горькой жизни кончен сон,—
Звук железный возвещает о печали похорон!
И невольно мы дрожим,
От забав своих спешим
И рыдаем, вспоминаем, что и мы глаза смежим.
Неизменно-монотонны­й,
Этот возглас отдаленный,
Похоронный тяжкий звон,
Точно стон —
Скорбный, гневный
И плачевный —
Вырастает в долгий гул,
Возвещает, что страдалец непробудным сном уснул.
В колокольных кельях ржавых
Он для правых и неправых
Грозно вторит об одном:
Что на сердце будет камень, что глаза сомкнутся сном.
Факел траурный горит,
С колокольни кто-то крикнул, кто-то громко говорит.
Кто-то черный там стоит,
И хохочет, и гремит,
И гудит, гудит, гудит,
К колокольне припадает,
Гулкий колокол качает —
Гулкий колокол рыдает,
Стонет в воздухе немом
И протяжно возвещает о покое гробом.


(Перевод К.Д.Бальмонта)
софуко. самурайская дщерь 5 октября 2016 г. 16:42:44 постоянная ссылка ]
Howard P. Lovecraft
The Ancient Track

There was no hand to hold me back
That night I found the ancient track
Over the hill and strained to see
The fields that teased my memory.

This tree that wall - I knew them well,
And all the roofs and orchards fell
Familiarly upon my mind
As from a past not far behind.

I knew what shadows would be cast
As the late moon came up at last
From back of Zaman's Hill, and how
The vale would shine three hours from now.

And when the path grew steep and high,
And seemed to end against the sky,
I had no fear of what might rest
Beyond that silhouetted crest.

Straight on I walked, while all the night
Grew pale with phosphorescent light,
And wall and farmhouse gable glowed
Unearthly by the climbing road.

There was the milestone that I knew -
"Two miles to Dunwich" - now the view
Of distant spire and roofs would dawn
With ten more upward paces gone...

The was no hand to hold me back
That night I found the ancient track,
And reached the crest to see outspread
A valley of the lost and dead;
And over Zaman's Hill the horn
Of a malignant moon was born,
To light the weeds and vines that grew
On ruined walls I never knew.

The fox-fire glowed in field and bog,
And unknown waters spewed a fog
Whose curling talons mocked the thought
That I had ever known this spot.

Too well I saw from the mad scene
That my loved past had never been -
Nor was I now upon the trail
Descending to that long dead vale.

Around was fog - ahead, the spray
Of star-streams in the Milky Way...
There was no hand to hold me back
That night I found the ancient track.
софуко. самурайская дщерь 5 октября 2016 г. 16:45:03 постоянная ссылка ]
Howard P. Lovecraft
Providence

Where bay and river tranquil blend,
And leafy hillsides rise,
The spires of Providence ascend
Against the ancient skies,
And in the narrow winding ways
That climb o'er slope and crest,
The magic of forgotten days
May still be found to rest.
A fanlight's gleam, a knocker's blow,
A glimpse of Georgian brick -
The sights and sounds of long ago
Where fancies cluster thick.
A flight of steps with iron rail,
A belfry looming tall,
A slender steeple, carved and pale,
A moss-grown garden wall.
A hidden churchyard's crumbling proofs
Of man's mortality,
A rotting wharf where gambrel roofs
Keep watch above the sea.
Square and parade, whose walls have towered
Full fifteen decades long
By cobbled ways 'mid trees embowered,
And slighted by the throng.
Stone bridges spanning languid streams,
Houses perched on the hill,
And courts where mysteries and dreams
The brooding spirit fill.
Steep alley steps by vines concealed,
Where small-paned windows glow
At twilight on a bit of field
That chance has left below.
My Providence! What airy hosts
Turn still thy gilded vanes;
What winds of elf that with grey ghosts
People thine ancient lanes!
The chimes of evening as of old
Above thy valleys sound,
While thy stern fathers 'neath the mould
Make blest thy sacred ground.
софуко. самурайская дщерь 11 октября 2016 г. 18:54:58 постоянная ссылка ]

H. P. Lovecraft
Fungi from Yuggoth

I. The Book

The place was dark and dusty and half-lost
In tangles of old alleys near the quays,
Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas,
And with queer curls of fog that west winds tossed.
Small lozenge panes, obscured by smoke and frost,
Just shewed the books, in piles like twisted trees,
Rotting from floor to roof—congeries
Of crumbling elder lore at little cost.

I entered, charmed, and from a cobwebbed heap
Took up the nearest tome and thumbed it through,
Trembling at curious words that seemed to keep
Some secret, monstrous if one only knew.
Then, looking for some seller old in craft,
I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.


II. Pursuit

I held the book beneath my coat, at pains
To hide the thing from sight in such a place;
Hurrying through the ancient harbor lanes
With often-turning head and nervous pace.
Dull, furtive windows in old tottering brick
Peered at me oddly as I hastened by,
And thinking what they sheltered, I grew sick
For a redeeming glimpse of clean blue sky.

No one had seen me take the thing—but still
A blank laugh echoed in my whirling head,
And I could guess what nighted worlds of ill
Lurked in that volume I had coveted.
The way grew strange—the walls alike and madding—
And far behind me, unseen feet were padding.


III. The Key


I do not know what windings in the waste
Of those strange sea-lanes brought me home once more,
But on my porch I trembled, white with haste
To get inside and bolt the heavy door.
I had the book that told the hidden way
Across the void and through the space-hung screens
That hold the undimensioned worlds at bay,
And keep lost aeons to their own demesnes.

At last the key was mine to those vague visions
Of sunset spires and twilight woods that brood
Dim in the gulfs beyond this earth’s precisions,
Lurking as memories of infinitude.
The key was mine, but as I sat there mumbling,
The attic window shook with a faint fumbling.


IV. Recognition

The day had come again, when as a child
I saw—just once—that hollow of old oaks,
Grey with a ground-mist that enfolds and chokes
The slinking shapes which madness has defiled.
It was the same—an herbage rank and wild
Clings round an altar whose carved sign invokes
That Nameless One to whom a thousand smokes
Rose, aeons gone, from unclean towers up-piled.

I saw the body spread on that dank stone,
And knew those things which feasted were not men;
I knew this strange, grey world was not my own,
But Yuggoth, past the starry voids—and then
The body shrieked at me with a dead cry,
And all too late I knew that it was I!


V. Homecoming

The daemon said that he would take me home
To the pale, shadowy land I half recalled
As a high place of stair and terrace, walled
With marble balustrades that sky-winds comb,
While miles below a maze of dome on dome
And tower on tower beside a sea lies sprawled.
Once more, he told me, I would stand enthralled
On those old heights, and hear the far-off foam.

All this he promised, and through sunset’s gate
He swept me, past the lapping lakes of flame,
And red-gold thrones of gods without a name
Who shriek in fear at some impending fate.
Then a black gulf with sea-sounds in the night:
“Here was your home,” he mocked, “when you had sight!”


VI. The Lamp

We found the lamp inside those hollow cliffs
Whose chiseled sign no priest in Thebes could read,
And from whose caverns frightened hieroglyphs
Warned every living creature of earth’s breed.
No more was there—just that one brazen bowl
With traces of a curious oil within;
Fretted with some obscurely patterned scroll,
And symbols hinting vaguely of strange sin.

Little the fears of forty centuries meant
To us as we bore off our slender spoil,
And when we scanned it in our darkened tent
We struck a match to test the ancient oil.
It blazed—great God! . . . But the vast shapes we saw
In that mad flash have seared our lives with awe.


VII. Zaman’s Hill

The great hill hung close over the old town,
A precipice against the main street’s end;
Green, tall, and wooded, looking darkly down
Upon the steeple at the highway bend.
Two hundred years the whispers had been heard
About what happened on the man-shunned slope—
Tales of an oddly mangled deer or bird,
Or of lost boys whose kin had ceased to hope.

One day the mail-man found no village there,
Nor were its folk or houses seen again;
People came out from Aylesbury to stare—
Yet they all told the mail-man it was plain
That he was mad for saying he had spied
The great hill’s gluttonous eyes, and jaws stretched wide.


VIII. The Port

Ten miles from Arkham I had struck the trail
That rides the cliff-edge over Boynton Beach,
And hoped that just at sunset I could reach
The crest that looks on Innsmouth in the vale.
Far out at sea was a retreating sail,
White as hard years of ancient winds could bleach,
But evil with some portent beyond speech,
So that I did not wave my hand or hail.

Sails out of lnnsmouth! echoing old renown
Of long-dead times. But now a too-swift night
Is closing in, and I have reached the height
Whence I so often scan the distant town.
The spires and roofs are there—but look! The gloom
Sinks on dark lanes, as lightless as the tomb!


IX. The Courtyard

It was the city I had known before;
The ancient, leprous town where mongrel throngs
Chant to strange gods, and beat unhallowed gongs
In crypts beneath foul alleys near the shore.
The rotting, fish-eyed houses leered at me
From where they leaned, drunk and half-animate,
As edging through the filth I passed the gate
To the black courtyard where the man would be.

The dark walls closed me in, and loud I cursed
That ever I had come to such a den,
When suddenly a score of windows burst
Into wild light, and swarmed with dancing men:
Mad, soundless revels of the dragging dead—
And not a corpse had either hands or head!


X. The Pigeon-Flyers

They took me slumming, where gaunt walls of brick
Bulge outward with a viscous stored-up evil,
And twisted faces, thronging foul and thick,
Wink messages to alien god and devil.
A million fires were blazing in the streets,
And from flat roofs a furtive few would fly
Bedraggled birds into the yawning sky
While hidden drums droned on with measured beats.

I knew those fires were brewing monstrous things,
And that those birds of space had been Outside—
I guessed to what dark planet’s crypts they plied,
And what they brought from Thog beneath their wings.
The others laughed—till struck too mute to speak
By what they glimpsed in one bird’s evil beak.


XI. The Well

Farmer Seth Atwood was past eighty when
He tried to sink that deep well by his door,
With only Eb to help him bore and bore.
We laughed, and hoped he’d soon be sane again.
And yet, instead, young Eb went crazy, too,
So that they shipped him to the county farm.
Seth bricked the well-mouth up as tight as glue—
Then hacked an artery in his gnarled left arm.

After the funeral we felt bound to get
Out to that well and rip the bricks away,
But all we saw were iron hand-holds set
Down a black hole deeper than we could say.
And yet we put the bricks back—for we found
The hole too deep for any line to sound.


XII. The Howler

They told me not to take the Briggs’ Hill path
That used to be the highroad through to Zoar,
For Goody Watkins, hanged in seventeen-four,
Had left a certain monstrous aftermath.
Yet when I disobeyed, and had in view
The vine-hung cottage by the great rock slope,
I could not think of elms or hempen rope,
But wondered why the house still seemed so new.

Stopping a while to watch the fading day,
I heard faint howls, as from a room upstairs,
When through the ivied panes one sunset ray
Struck in, and caught the howler unawares.
I glimpsed—and ran in frenzy from the place,
And from a four-pawed thing with human face.


XIII. Hesperia

The winter sunset, flaming beyond spires
And chimneys half-detached from this dull sphere,
Opens great gates to some forgotten year
Of elder splendours and divine desires.
Expectant wonders burn in those rich fires,
Adventure-fraught, and not untinged with fear;
A row of sphinxes where the way leads clear
Toward walls and turrets quivering to far lyres.

It is the land where beauty’s meaning flowers;
Where every unplaced memory has a source;
Where the great river Time begins its course
Down the vast void in starlit streams of hours.
Dreams bring us close—but ancient lore repeats
That human tread has never soiled these streets.


XIV. Star-Winds

It is a certain hour of twilight glooms,
Mostly in autumn, when the star-wind pours
Down hilltop streets, deserted out-of-doors,
But shewing early lamplight from snug rooms.
The dead leaves rush in strange, fantastic twists,
And chimney-smoke whirls round with alien grace,
Heeding geometries of outer space,
While Fomalhaut peers in through southward mists.

This is the hour when moonstruck poets know
What fungi sprout in Yuggoth, and what scents
And tints of flowers fill Nithon’s continents,
Such as in no poor earthly garden blow.
Yet for each dream these winds to us convey,
A dozen more of ours they sweep away!


XV. Antarktos

Deep in my dream the great bird whispered queerly
Of the black cone amid the polar waste;
Pushing above the ice-sheet lone and drearly,
By storm-crazed aeons battered and defaced.
Hither no living earth-shapes take their courses,
And only pale auroras and faint suns
Glow on that pitted rock, whose primal sources
Are guessed at dimly by the Elder Ones.

If men should glimpse it, they would merely wonder
What tricky mound of Nature’s build they spied;
But the bird told of vaster parts, that under
The mile-deep ice-shroud crouch and brood and bide.
God help the dreamer whose mad visions shew
Those dead eyes set in crystal gulfs below!


XVI. The Window

The house was old, with tangled wings outthrown,
Of which no one could ever half keep track,
And in a small room somewhat near the back
Was an odd window sealed with ancient stone.
There, in a dream-plagued childhood, quite alone
I used to go, where night reigned vague and black;
Parting the cobwebs with a curious lack
Of fear, and with a wonder each time grown.

One later day I brought the masons there
To find what view my dim forbears had shunned,
But as they pierced the stone, a rush of air
Burst from the alien voids that yawned beyond.
They fled—but I peered through and found unrolled
All the wild worlds of which my dreams had told.


XVII. A Memory

There were great steppes, and rocky table-lands
Stretching half-limitless in starlit night,
With alien campfires shedding feeble light
On beasts with tinkling bells, in shaggy bands.
Far to the south the plain sloped low and wide
To a dark zigzag line of wall that lay
Like a huge python of some primal day
Which endless time had chilled and petrified.

I shivered oddly in the cold, thin air,
And wondered where I was and how I came,
When a cloaked form against a campfire’s glare
Rose and approached, and called me by my name.
Staring at that dead face beneath the hood,
I ceased to hope—because I understood.


XVIII. The Gardens of Yin

Beyond that wall, whose ancient masonry
Reached almost to the sky in moss-thick towers,
There would be terraced gardens, rich with flowers,
And flutter of bird and butterfly and bee.
There would be walks, and bridges arching over
Warm lotos-pools reflecting temple eaves,
And cherry-trees with delicate boughs and leaves
Against a pink sky where the herons hover.

All would be there, for had not old dreams flung
Open the gate to that stone-lanterned maze
Where drowsy streams spin out their winding ways,
Trailed by green vines from bending branches hung?
I hurried—but when the wall rose, grim and great,
I found there was no longer any gate.


XIX. The Bells

Year after year I heard that faint, far ringing
Of deep-toned bells on the black midnight wind;
Peals from no steeple I could ever find,
But strange, as if across some great void winging.
I searched my dreams and memories for a clue,
And thought of all the chimes my visions carried;
Of quiet Innsmouth, where the white gulls tarried
Around an ancient spire that once I knew.

Always perplexed I heard those far notes falling,
Till one March night the bleak rain splashing cold
Beckoned me back through gateways of recalling
To elder towers where the mad clappers tolled.
They tolled—but from the sunless tides that pour
Through sunken valleys on the sea’s dead floor.


XX. Night-Gaunts

Out of what crypt they crawl, I cannot tell,
But every night I see the rubbery things,
Black, horned, and slender, with membraneous wings,
And tails that bear the bifid barb of hell.
They come in legions on the north wind’s swell,
With obscene clutch that titillates and stings,
Snatching me off on monstrous voyagings
To grey worlds hidden deep in nightmare’s well.

Over the jagged peaks of Thok they sweep,
Heedless of all the cries I try to make,
And down the nether pits to that foul lake
Where the puffed shoggoths splash in doubtful sleep.
But oh! If only they would make some sound,
Or wear a face where faces should be found!


XXI. Nyarlathotep

And at the last from inner Egypt came
The strange dark One to whom the fellahs bowed;
Silent and lean and cryptically proud,
And wrapped in fabrics red as sunset flame.
Throngs pressed around, frantic for his commands,
But leaving, could not tell what they had heard;
While through the nations spread the awestruck word
That wild beasts followed him and licked his hands.

Soon from the sea a noxious birth began;
Forgotten lands with weedy spires of gold;
The ground was cleft, and mad auroras rolled
Down on the quaking citadels of man.
Then, crushing what he chanced to mould in play,
The idiot Chaos blew Earth’s dust away.


XXII. Azathoth

Out in the mindless void the daemon bore me,
Past the bright clusters of dimensioned space,
Till neither time nor matter stretched before me,
But only Chaos, without form or place.
Here the vast Lord of All in darkness muttered
Things he had dreamed but could not understand,
While near him shapeless bat-things flopped and fluttered
In idiot vortices that ray-streams fanned.

They danced insanely to the high, thin whining
Of a cracked flute clutched in a monstrous paw,
Whence flow the aimless waves whose chance combining
Gives each frail cosmos its eternal law.
“I am His Messenger,” the daemon said,
As in contempt he struck his Master’s head.


XXIII. Mirage

I do not know if ever it existed—
That lost world floating dimly on Time’s stream—
And yet I see it often, violet-misted,
And shimmering at the back of some vague dream.
There were strange towers and curious lapping rivers,
Labyrinths of wonder, and low vaults of light,
And bough-crossed skies of flame, like that which quivers
Wistfully just before a winter’s night.

Great moors led off to sedgy shores unpeopled,
Where vast birds wheeled, while on a windswept hill
There was a village, ancient and white-steepled,
With evening chimes for which I listen still.
I do not know what land it is—or dare
Ask when or why I was, or will be, there.


XXIV. The Canal

Somewhere in dream there is an evil place
Where tall, deserted buildings crowd along
A deep, black, narrow channel, reeking strong
Of frightful things whence oily currents race.
Lanes with old walls half meeting overhead
Wind off to streets one may or may not know,
And feeble moonlight sheds a spectral glow
Over long rows of windows, dark and dead.

There are no footfalls, and the one soft sound
Is of the oily water as it glides
Under stone bridges, and along the sides
Of its deep flume, to some vague ocean bound.
None lives to tell when that stream washed away
Its dream-lost region from the world of clay.


XXV. St. Toad’s

“Beware St. Toad’s cracked chimes!” I heard him scream
As I plunged into those mad lanes that wind
In labyrinths obscure and undefined
South of the river where old centuries dream.
He was a furtive figure, bent and ragged,
And in a flash had staggered out of sight,
So still I burrowed onward in the night
Toward where more roof-lines rose, malign and jagged.

No guide-book told of what was lurking here—
But now I heard another old man shriek:
“Beware St.Toad’s cracked chimes!” And growing weak,
I paused, when a third greybeard croaked in fear:
“Beware St. Toad’s cracked chimes!” Aghast, I fled—
Till suddenly that black spire loomed ahead.


XXVI. The Familiars

John Whateley lived about a mile from town,
Up where the hills began to huddle thick;
We never thought his wits were very quick,
Seeing the way he let his farm run down.
He used to waste his time on some queer books
He’d found around the attic of his place,
Till funny lines got creased into his face,
And folks all said they didn’t like his looks.

When he began those night-howls we declared
He’d better be locked up away from harm,
So three men from the Aylesbury town farm
Went for him—but came back alone and scared.
They’d found him talking to two crouching things
That at their step flew off on great black wings.


XXVII. The Elder Pharos

From Leng, where rocky peaks climb bleak and bare
Under cold stars obscure to human sight,
There shoots at dusk a single beam of light
Whose far blue rays make shepherds whine in prayer.
They say (though none has been there) that it comes
Out of a pharos in a tower of stone,
Where the last Elder One lives on alone,
Talking to Chaos with the beat of drums.

The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask
Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide
A face not of this earth, though none dares ask
Just what those features are, which bulge inside.
Many, in man’s first youth, sought out that glow,
But what they found, no one will ever know.


XXVIII. Expectancy

I cannot tell why some things hold for me
A sense of unplumbed marvels to befall,
Or of a rift in the horizon’s wall
Opening to worlds where only gods can be.
There is a breathless, vague expectancy,
As of vast ancient pomps I half recall,
Or wild adventures, uncorporeal,
Ecstasy-fraught, and as a day-dream free.

It is in sunsets and strange city spires,
Old villages and woods and misty downs,
South winds, the sea, low hills, and lighted towns,
Old gardens, half-heard songs, and the moon’s fires.
But though its lure alone makes life worth living,
None gains or guesses what it hints at giving.


XXIX. Nostalgia

Once every year, in autumn’s wistful glow,
The birds fly out over an ocean waste,
Calling and chattering in a joyous haste
To reach some land their inner memories know.
Great terraced gardens where bright blossoms blow,
And lines of mangoes luscious to the taste,
And temple-groves with branches interlaced
Over cool paths—all these their vague dreams shew.

They search the sea for marks of their old shore—
For the tall city, white and turreted—
But only empty waters stretch ahead,
So that at last they turn away once more.
Yet sunken deep where alien polyps throng,
The old towers miss their lost, remembered song.


XXX. Background

I never can be tied to raw, new things,
For I first saw the light in an old town,
Where from my window huddled roofs sloped down
To a quaint harbour rich with visionings.
Streets with carved doorways where the sunset beams
Flooded old fanlights and small window-panes,
And Georgian steeples topped with gilded vanes—
These were the sights that shaped my childhood dreams.

Such treasures, left from times of cautious leaven,
Cannot but loose the hold of flimsier wraiths
That flit with shifting ways and muddled faiths
Across the changeless walls of earth and heaven.
They cut the moment’s thongs and leave me free
To stand alone before eternity.


XXXI. The Dweller

It had been old when Babylon was new;
None knows how long it slept beneath that mound,
Where in the end our questing shovels found
Its granite blocks and brought it back to view.
There were vast pavements and foundation-walls,
And crumbling slabs and statues, carved to shew
Fantastic beings of some long ago
Past anything the world of man recalls.

And then we saw those stone steps leading down
Through a choked gate of graven dolomite
To some black haven of eternal night
Where elder signs and primal secrets frown.
We cleared a path—but raced in mad retreat
When from below we heard those clumping feet.


XXXII. Alienation

His solid flesh had never been away,
For each dawn found him in his usual place,
But every night his spirit loved to race
Through gulfs and worlds remote from common day.
He had seen Yaddith, yet retained his mind,
And come back safely from the Ghooric zone,
When one still night across curved space was thrown
That beckoning piping from the voids behind.

He waked that morning as an older man,
And nothing since has looked the same to him.
Objects around float nebulous and dim—
False, phantom trifles of some vaster plan.
His folk and friends are now an alien throng
To which he struggles vainly to belong.


XXXIII. Harbour Whistles

Over old roofs and past decaying spires
The harbour whistles chant all through the night;
Throats from strange ports, and beaches far and white,
And fabulous oceans, ranged in motley choirs.
Each to the other alien and unknown,
Yet all, by some obscurely focussed force
From brooding gulfs beyond the Zodiac’s course,
Fused into one mysterious cosmic drone.

Through shadowy dreams they send a marching line
Of still more shadowy shapes and hints and views;
Echoes from outer voids, and subtle clues
To things which they themselves cannot define.
And always in that chorus, faintly blent,
We catch some notes no earth-ship ever sent.


XXXIV. Recapture

The way led down a dark, half-wooded heath
Where moss-grey boulders humped above the mould,
And curious drops, disquieting and cold,
Sprayed up from unseen streams in gulfs beneath.
There was no wind, nor any trace of sound
In puzzling shrub, or alien-featured tree,
Nor any view before—till suddenly,
Straight in my path, I saw a monstrous mound.

Half to the sky those steep sides loomed upspread,
Rank-grassed, and cluttered by a crumbling flight
Of lava stairs that scaled the fear-topped height
In steps too vast for any human tread.
I shrieked—and knew what primal star and year
Had sucked me back from man’s dream-transient sphere!


XXXV. Evening Star

I saw it from that hidden, silent place
Where the old wood half shuts the meadow in.
It shone through all the sunset’s glories—thin
At first, but with a slowly brightening face.
Night came, and that lone beacon, amber-hued,
Beat on my sight as never it did of old;
The evening star—but grown a thousandfold
More haunting in this hush and solitude.

It traced strange pictures on the quivering air—
Half-memories that had always filled my eyes—
Vast towers and gardens; curious seas and skies
Of some dim life—I never could tell where.
But now I knew that through the cosmic dome
Those rays were calling from my far, lost home.


XXXVI. Continuity

There is in certain ancient things a trace
Of some dim essence—more than form or weight;
A tenuous aether, indeterminate,
Yet linked with all the laws of time and space.
A faint, veiled sign of continuities
That outward eyes can never quite descry;
Of locked dimensions harbouring years gone by,
And out of reach except for hidden keys.

It moves me most when slanting sunbeams glow
On old farm buildings set against a hill,
And paint with life the shapes which linger still
From centuries less a dream than this we know.
In that strange light I feel I am not far
From the fixt mass whose sides the ages are.
софуко. самурайская дщерь 26 апреля 2017 г. 14:49:36 постоянная ссылка ]
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"
by Robert Browning

I.

My first thought was, he lied in every word,

That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie

On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored

Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.


II.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?

What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,

And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph

For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,


III.

If at his counsel I should turn aside

Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly

I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,

So much as gladness that some end might be.


IV.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,

What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope

With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring

My heart made, finding failure in its scope.


V.

As when a sick man very near to death

Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,

And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith,

"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")


VI.

While some discuss if near the other graves

Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,

With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves

He may not shame such tender love and stay.


VII.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,

Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among "The Band" - to wit,

The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,

And all the doubt was now—should I be fit?


VIII.

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,

That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day

Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim

Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.


IX.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found

Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view

O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.

I might go on; nought else remained to do.


X.

So, on I went. I think I never saw

Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!

But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,

You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.


XI.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,

In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,

"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,

Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."


XII.

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk

Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents

In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk

Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.


XIII.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair

In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.

One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:

Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!


XIV.

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,

With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;

Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;

He must be wicked to deserve such pain.


XV.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.

As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,

Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art:

One taste of the old time sets all to rights.


XVI.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face

Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold

An arm in mine to fix me to the place
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!

Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.


XVII.

Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands

Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.

Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands

Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!


XVIII.

Better this present than a past like that;

Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.

Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat

Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.


XIX.

A sudden little river crossed my path

As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;

This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath

Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.


XX.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along

Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit

Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,

Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.


XXI.

Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared

To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek

For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
—It may have been a water-rat I speared,

But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.


XXII.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.

Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,

Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,

Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage—


XXIII.

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.

What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,

None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk

Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.


XXIV.

And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!

What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel

Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,

Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.


XXV.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,

Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,

Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood—

Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.


XXVI.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,

Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;

Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim

Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.


XXVII.

And just as far as ever from the end!

Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,

A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned

That brushed my cap—perchance the guide I sought.


XXVIII.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,

'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains - with such name to grace

Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you!

How to get from them was no clearer case.


XXIX.

Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick

Of mischief happened to me, God knows when—
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,

Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click

As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!


XXX.

Burningly it came on me all at once,

This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;

While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,

After a life spent training for the sight!


XXXI.

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?

The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart

In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf

He strikes on, only when the timbers start.


XXXII.

Not see? because of night perhaps? - why, day

Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:

The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,—

"Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"


XXXIII.

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled

Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,—

How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.


XXXIV.

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met

To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame

I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,

And blew "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."

софуко. самурайская дщерь 21 сентября 2017 г. 09:12:47 постоянная ссылка ]
Столь сладко мучение
в моём сердце,
что я счастлив жить
только ради этой жестокой красавицы.
В прекрасных небесах
пусть растёт гордыня
без жалости.
Крепка, словно скала,
против волн гордыни
устоит моя вера.

Лживая надежда
напрасно приходит ко мне.
Радость и покой
не снисходят на меня.
И жестокая, которую люблю,
не даёт мне утешения
в нежной жалости:
среди бесконечной боли,
среди преданных надежд
будет жить моя вера.

Ни в огне ни в холоде
нет мне покоя.
Только на небесах
обрету я спокойствие.
Если смертельным ударом
твёрдая стрела
пронзит мне сердце,
я изменю свою судьбу,
и стрелой смерти
сердце своё исцелю.

Если пламя любви
никогда не коснётся
того холодного сердца,
что меня пленило,
если откажет мне в милости
жестокая красавица,
что очаровала мою душу,
быть может, однажды она
будет скорбеть, страдать
и вздыхать из-за меня.
софуко. самурайская дщерь 24 января 2018 г. 11:03:45 постоянная ссылка ]
i'm trying too hard but they leave me no choice and the bath is full of red now
 


Я разгадал тебя; и жизнь твою я разгадал > THE MORE WE LIVE THE MORE WE DIE THE MORE WE SEE THE MORE GO BLIND  14 ноября 2010 г. 14:41:28

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