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the wind speaks to you of changethe wind speaks to you of change
of breaking and remoulding
of joyous transformations
and the wind is the only one.
everywhere, the man sings
that you want it, you deserve it,
begs for you, curses you,
reaches for you,
and you wrap yourself in the wind
because it is all you have left
and the wind whips at your hair
and sends it flying round your face,
sends you flying, up into the atmosphere,
where you drift in the silence,
and the wind keeps blowing,
sloughing off cells, shearing away bruises
and pitted skin, leaving you pink and pulsing
and brand brand new. and the wind keeps blowing,
taking you apart piece by piece and throwing you out into the world,
throwing you against mountains and lakes
and oceans and forests, dashing you against the moon
until you are more pieces than you have words,
until you can hear everything and nothing,
until anyone who reaches will always find you
but never have you, until you are knowing
and knowledge, until you do not need to believe
BridgeAnd so today I pass away
from firesides where I've sat and smiled;
and so I go from road to road
from places where I was a child.
The leaves of gold have grown old
and summer light will fade away;
but here I lie beneath the sky
and live to face another day.
Beyond the road that I call home
another story waits for me;
with cherry trees, and silver leaves,
and books of living poetry.
Beside the sea a place will be
that waits for me to cherish it,
and as the sand runs through my hands
the night will never blemish it.
And so today I pass away
although my life is rooted here;
because this time my life is mine
and I must go and find it there.
WorldIn the scorpion's sting, the blood of the soldier.
In the blood of the soldier, the desert sand.
In the desert sand, the breath of the warrior.
In the breath of the warrior, the heart of the mountain.
In the heart of the mountain, the song of the mother.
In the song of the mother, the fire of the dragon.
In the fire of the dragon, the scream of the eagle.
In the scream of the eagle, the joy of the child.
In the joy of the child, the green of the grasslands.
In the green of the grasslands, the strength of the healer.
In the strength of the healer, the wash of the ocean.
In the wash of the ocean, the hands of the father.
In the hands of the father, the crash of the thunder.
In the crash of the thunder, the touch of the lover.
In the touch of the lover, the scorpion's sting.
The Miller's Daughter And The Willowby the river's rushing water
walked the miller's dark-eyed daughter
trod her way along the meadow
grass was green and air was fresher
across the sky the sun came leaping
early morning summer sleeping
set the bright-eyed birds awaking
and the daises there unfolding
and by the river stood the willow
green fingers praying to the water
reached out to the miller's daughter
in the sunlight of the meadow
grasped her wrist with wooden fingers
felt her skin, and bright its burning
told her that she loved her truly
pulled her close with sighs of pleasure
the miller's daughter met the willow
in the meadow by the river
pressed her hands against the brownbark
pressed her cheek against her woodheart
and with sorrow sighing sweetly
told how now the butcher's brother
young and ruddy, bloodstained butcher
came to town to plan their wedding
and the willow, weeping always
touched with love the miller's daughter
kissed her cheek with leaves of emerald
stood with her beside the water
stood and stood until
EvenstarBlackened cherries hang limply
from the charred branch. This
is all that remains. In the
twilight, the briefest spark
of fire scatters the birds
like dandelion seeds. Only
crumbled earth and ash, only
bitter water, only sorrow.
The sun has already set.
But there is a soft glowing
amongst the black bars
of trees. Ever weary,
we remain tied to this
purpose. We watch her rise.
And summits story:
O thin ,
they bent before the rushing windThe sand built up around the ruins,
endless heaps of shifting gold,
and once there was glass in the windows.
The people who were left stood in lines
like visitors, and there were no guides left,
not even the stars.
Grass withered. Soft-feathered pigeons
lay in the road, and they took pictures.
No feelings again today.
There weren't excuses, or prayers,
or questions. They just walked,
and wondered if mirrors still talked.
Each paving stone was a desert to cross.
The lines were all crooked and the houses
limped like beggars.
By the sea, the cliffs were bloodied red
in the sun, like a sacrifice. The waves
lapped greedily on the shore, like a lover.
We were swallowed by doubt, and living
is destruction. The world emptied of colour.
Now we were only numbers.
We could not forgive. Entropy descended,
and in the end, everything was chaos.
The sun melted in the sky. And it was good.
vowsI don't know who you are but I know that I love you.
I don't know where you are but I know that I love you.
If I could reach out and grasp handfuls of sky
and tie them into your hair like ribbons,
I would. I would. I do.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More