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Led Zeppelin: Battle of Evermore

 

Queen of light took her bow, and then she turned to go,

the prince of peace embraced the gloom, and walked the night alone

oh dance in the dark of night, sing to the morning light

the dark lord rides in force tonight, and time will tell us all

 

oh, throw down your plow and hoe, rest not to lock your homes

 

side by side we wait the night for the darkest of them all

 

I hear the horses thunder down in the valley below

I'm waiting for the Angles of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow

 

The apples of the valley hold, the seeds of happiness

the ground is rich from tender care, repay, don't forget, no, no

dance in the dark of night, sing to the morning light

 

The apples turn brown and black, the tyrants face is red

 

Oh, war is the common cry, pick up your swords and fly

the sky is filled with good and bad that mortals never know

 

oh well, the night is long, the beads of time pass slow

tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow

the pain of war cannot exceed the wave of after math

the drums will shake the castle wall, the ring wraiths ride in black, ride on

sing as you raise your bow, shoot straighter than before

no comfort has the fire at night that lights the face so cold

oh dance in the dark at night, sing to the morning light

the magic runes are writ in gold to bring the balance back: bring it back

At last the sun is shining, the clouds of blue roll by 

with flames from the dragon of darkness, the sunlight blinds his eyes!

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Carl Rakosi: In what sense I am I

 

 

In what sense

                       I am I

A minor observer

                            as in a dream

absorbed in the interior

a beardless youth

                             unaccountability

remote yet present

                              at the action

reminding me faintly

                                of prufrock....

a diminutive figure

                              barely discernable

seemingly ageless

                              escapes me

the original impulse

                               to sing

compressed

                    into one exhausted note

breaks out

                 of the chest space

vibrating along

                        the shoulders

in the presence

                          of full-bodied

womanliness

                     the eyes dark

in the inner scene

                            the hair long

and black

                 our dark lady

inmate of courtship

she does not speak

                               she is nameless

the reason for her

                             presence then

is unknown

a shepherd

                   vaguely associated

stands

           at a distance

under

          a birch tree

casually playing a flute

sweetness

                 streams across...

also

        from the balance

and the position

                          of each

it issues

neither moves

                       the scene

is not matter

                    that can pall

or diminish

                  it's secret holds

as fast as I

as in Giorgione

                         the suspense

is eternal

Edited by littlejoe3
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Things have done

 

Things have done.

Days are numbered.

here

we have prayed

next to  the sleeping river.

 

there

ice has gone

in the days of Spring.

And faded, the days!

How far!

 

My fulfilled day

has finished itself,

my naked spirit

it sings for all.

 

Sick, in love,

i wait for you,

dark, sleepless,

cold as ice.

 

Alessandro Blok

 

4th of March 1903

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it is a world, maybe far, maybe never seen..

I ve noticed that tranlastions can be different.

 

 

 

 

 

The Unknown Lady

 

By Aleksandr Blok

 

The restaurants on hot spring evenings

Lie under a dense and savage air.

Foul drafts and hoots from drunken revelers

Contaminate the thoroughfare.

 

Above the dusty lanes of suburbia

Above the tedium of bungalows

A pretzel sign begilds a bakery

And children screech fortissimo.

 

And every evening beyond the barriers

Gentlemen  of practiced wit and charm

Go strolling beside the drainage ditches-

Derby tilted, lady at the arm.

 

The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water

A woman’s shriek assaults the ear

While above, in the sky, inured to everything,

The moon looks on with a mindles leer.

 

And every evening my one companion

Sits here, reflected in my glass.

Like me, he has drunk of bitter mysteries.

Like me, he is broken, dulled, downcast.

 

The sleepy lackeys stand beside tables

Waiting for the night to pass

And tipplers with the eyes of rabbits

Cry out:  “In vino veritas!”

 

And every evening (or am I imagining?)

Exactly at the appointed time

A girl’s slim figure, silk raimented,

Glides past the misted window  grime.

 

 

And slowly, passing through the revelers,

Unaccompanied, always alone,

Exuding mists and secret fragrances,

She sits at the table that is her own.

 

Something ancient, something legendary

Surrounds her presence in the room,

Her narrow hand, her silk, her bracelets,

Her hat, the rings, the ostrich plume.

 

Entranced by her presence, near, enigmatic,

I gaze through the dark of her lowered veil

And I behold an enchanted shoreline

An enchanted hinterland, far and pale.

 

I am made a guardian of higher mysteries,

Someone’s sun is entrusted to my control.

Tart wine has pierced the last convolution

Of my bent, labyrinthine soul.

 

And now the drooping plumes of ostriches,

Asway in my brain, droop slowly lower

And two eyes, limpid, blue, and fathomless

Are blooming on a distant shore.

 

Inside my soul a treasure is buried,

The key is here, and it is mine.

How right you are, you drunken monster!

I know: the truth is in the wine.

 

The poet is Russian.

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suddenly

a breath blows

and kisses gently

my face,

it moves sprightly the sinew.

a solitary wind.

Alone

but not abandoned

to bad feelings

or dirty thoughts

i play a song

with the guitar,

i don't want

a Catherine's wheel,

nor a grass snake

or a siren

i am searching

a complete

melody

so i look

at the sky

outside the window

and i look for inspiration,

it will come

it wil come.

 

(it's me writing)

Edited by paoladegliesposti
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Beginning, The Poem by Rupert Brooke

Some day I shall rise and leave my friends

And seek you again through the world's far ends,

You whom I found so fair

(Touch of your hands and smell of your hair!),

My only god in the days that were.

My eager feet shall find you again,

Though the sullen years and the mark of pain

Have changed you wholly; for I shall know

(How could I forget having loved you so?),

In the sad half-light of evening,

The face that was all my sunrising.

So then at the ends of the earth I'll stand

And hold you fiercely by either hand,

And seeing your age and ashen hair

I'll curse the thing that once you were,

Because it is changed and pale and old

(Lips that were scarlet, hair that was gold!),

And I loved you before you were old and wise,

When the flame of youth was strong in your eyes,

-- And my heart is sick with memories.

 

this is beautiful.. :)  :)

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What may come: by Skye Tandy

 

Not everything is as it seems

And no one is ever truly happy here

Mostly because were told to drop our dreams

 

But no one ever addresses our needy fears

somehow we've been handed the end of the rope

Left alone to make the muddy waters clear

 

In the midst of all the chaos we cope

By seeking out the comfort amidst the pain

Looking into the things that should install hope

 

What is hope and reality that it stains

for anyone can see that it exists not

Shed a tear as you watch goodness wane

Instead it's gratification sought

Within a world that can't make up it's mind

Instant feeling with it's lost souls are brought

 

Where is the path? Through what does it wind?

Curving here, breaking past the man made walls

Descending, until the broken spirit is all one finds

 

From all directions, the way words path seems to call

not caring who the confusion leads astray

And then stepping back, so as not to take the fall

 

Yet the path carries on, blindly leading the day

And everyone allows it one more fleeting move

Blindly groping the invisible, hand hold that's taken away

 

When will the awakening arrive, making us prove

That we are more than simple minded machines?

Trying desperately to avoid the looks that disapprove

 

Why must we carry on, strapped to a ride that careens?

Tossing us, throwing us, like a rag doll in are child's hands

Shouldn't there be more to this Macabre  Scene?

 

Eyes open, I see all of this, eyes closed, I weep and demand-

Is this the way we had our world originally planned?

post-672870-0-58925600-1428670185_thumb.jpg

Edited by littlejoe3
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Poem from Dark Matter

First light through the limbs of the trees. And then

the trees. Each morning the hum of traffic

through the freeway wall. And then the traffic

we’re bottled in. Each thing first betrayed

by the shapes around it. As if shadows held

all our weight. Like the empty space that props

each fiery nest of stars, the smooth circumference

of every heavenly body toward which astronomers

might dream. I’m at the kitchen window, early light.

Reading science for tea leaves. Pluto, it seems,

is far colder than we thought. Even the constant

speed of light is decaying. And look where thoughts

can lead: Somewhere in a lonely future, a man

hears his heart stop beating long before the world

goes black. So slow the rate at which nothing

approaches. Or maybe like an ostrich we’ll outrun

our past. And then our present. And this, my gift

to you, whatever you’ll make of it. The soul, a ship

in a bottle lost at sea. Drops its anchor anyway.

***

 

Timothy Green

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