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Entre les deux gouffres, mon esprit balance, tel le fou suspendu au dessus de la vache bigarrée!
"Threads of a masquerade.
Thoughts entangled in Middle earth
caught in the snare of a weaver haughty.
Thoughts decaying of fortune or nefarious glory
Twanging and groaning from the webs of their uncertain birth.
Gods whimsical on their aureate thrones,
In their bliss Oblivious of fates they twined.
Masks of mirth tweedle gambles and slanders predestined,
Oh so oblivious of the threads flowing through their bones!
Wars unfailing, nightmares of the weaver,
Scarlet ravages of a delirium he denies.
Lo! Orcs and elves embraced in a mutual slaughter,
Fighting the same shadow casted on their spirit.
By this mascara we watch and wear who can tell
to which mirror belonged those senseless shards of lies ?
Suspicious, heinous, voracious, circles the yell
shrieked by wretched clusters, wreathed angers,
uttered by the weaver in his sleep all alone,
in his grief of solitude we all inherit.
Sorrows of the stars, his sparkling grimaces forlorn.
In their schemes snuggled, masters almighty devise
of their soldiers' jolly tangos, a rhapsody
played in three noxious steps, on ruby encrusted chess.
Destroying realms, those kings of apathy
fail to cover with blood ropes backing their bodies.
Embossed by their radiant smiles, queens array death
over their luscious chests, mauled by broken promises.
Hiding their daggers behind white gowns of bounties,
They long for a bleak prince, caught in his cosy hell.
'Las, princes and ropes are interlaced forever.
By this masquerade we dance and play who can tell
which pawn will lastly stand on the ground of power?
In middle earth, deceits whirling
warble on the scaffold like disheartened raptors
Grim slayers in ballerinas disguised
Lurking from their lassitude, in murk irised,
devour their prey's repute with ear baubles hanging
like ludicrous grapes, lustrous rosaries of terror.
Humble scribes covered with coats and thistles,
wander dissenting the arenas of demise.
Spectral night-birds pace their halls nervously,
seeking for torpor, praying for slumber,
they hibernate eagerly and yet again they rise
for one last moment on Arda, unceasing and brittle.
Over the somber scenes of Middle earth,
A promise given is a withering aster,
Friends are venturous fables or reliable foes,
Graceful simpers disclose razor-sharp teeth.
Over the burlesque scene, the jaded comedy,
Knights are crooked and thugs swear vows,
Bears sail seas and corsairs quarry peace,
Warriors assault maiden rather than battlegrounds.
Dire dragons, black barbed ablaze and abhorrent
hide behind their sooty scales, a tender heart
shivering under its foolish ill-fated torment.
Behind the velvet curtain of middle earth,
The communion of loneliness and sacred dirt,
The haughty weaver conducts his orchestra cosmogonal
with imperial gestures and euphonious bounds.
By this masquerade we fiddle and flee who can tell
what shall befall to the puppets when tolls the knell
when lastly free they fall
their tinkling threads
severed ?"
Hors ligne
By this masquerade we fiddle and flee who can tell
what shall befall to the puppets when tolls the knell
when lastly free they fall
their tinkling threads
severed ?"
Nō hēr hūru wāt, hwæðre...
Let one live alone doing no evil, care-free, like an elephant in the elephant forest.
C.
Hors ligne
Comme chantait Ónen, le poète Sinda :
I sing the progresse of a deathlesse soule,
Who Fate, which Eru made, but doth not controunle,
Placed in most shapes; all time before the law
Yoak'd us, and when, and since, in this I sing.
And great Arda to his aged evening;
From infant morne, through manly noone I saw.
What the gold Vanyar, or silver Noldor saw,
Telerin brasse, or Avari iron
A work t'outweare Aman lights, Sun and Mone
And (holy writt excepted) made to yeeld to none.
G., weaving to a thread of beauty, joy for ever
Hors ligne
Ni chez un garçon, ni chez une fille dorée,
Ni chez une femme aux seins dressés,
La beauté ne peut se concevoir sans la pudeur.
C'est la pudeur qui sème la graine
Qui fera sépanouir la fleur de la beauté.
Cléarchos, Les Érotiques
Hein ? Quoi ? C'est hors sujet ??
I. :D
Hors ligne
Rhô Isen, t'aurais pu faire un effort et trouver un poème un peu plus ouvertement contre Eru, ce sénile tireur de ficelles, par tous les diables!
Je me doute que les "luscious chests" de mes reines ont du t'inspirer ce passage pour le monins fleuri.
Guillaume, joli passage de Onen, je dirai même un de ses plus païens, dommage que le mécréant ait fini totalement corrompu par la grâce factice d'Eru.
Ceci dit, il n'est sans doute rien de plus beau qu'un croyant qui doute et tente de se libèrer des filets du tisseur. ;)
.S
Hors ligne
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