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Travelers never think that they are the foreigners.

quote by Mason Cooley
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Travelers

We're travelers and we have no home,
We're travelers and we are trying to atone,
We're travelers and we have no name,
We're travelers with no one to blame,

Travelers who have no shame,
Travelers who all look the same,
Travelers who still love you,
But we prefer skies blue,

We don't play the game you do,
We also never feel blue,
We only know what is true,
We also know what's good for you,

We don't need your superstition,
We can't believe in repetition,
We don't like your traditions,
We only have our intuition,

We're travelers, we can take the pain,
We're travelers, you think we're insane,
We're travelers, we see your principles sway,
We're travelers, we still love you anyway,

Traveling time, through dirt and grime,
Hoping one day to align,
Our hearts and minds,
Travelers who will leave a sign of better times.

5 December 2012

poem by David Andre' Klopper
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Return To Him

We live in a cold country indeed; a country that has a spiritual need,
A spiritually cold country for sure; a nation walking far from the Lord.
In the Scriptures we have been told, the love of most will grow cold,
This was spoken by Jesus Christ, who knows the heart of every life.

Many attitudes today are wrought, by the things they’ve been taught,
By distorted facts they’ve received, from men who are also deceived.
Seeding lies within a child’s heart, leading them astray from the start,
Helping a little heart to be cold, which only worsens as they grow old.

It seems like foreigners in the land, regarding God, better understand,
The need for God within every man; actually more than we try or can.
So it is here from shore to shore, that many men don’t need The Lord.
For many here don’t appreciate, The Lord above, who made us great.

Many have no desire in our nation, to humbly accept God’s Salvation,
Ignoring the fact of men’s prosperity, is all due to The God of Eternity.
Citizens across this land we trod, are often hostile to the Word of God,
While foreigners listen to God’s Truth, without an argument or reproof.

But they’re both in need of the same, an acceptance of the only name,
The name of Eternal God’s only Son; the Christ who died for everyone.
For all foreigners need Jesus Christ, to enter Heaven and Eternal Life,
And we need to turn away from our sin, and as a nation return to Him.

poem by Bob Gotti
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Foreigners....

You look at me and ask yourself
Who am I?
What am I?
What have I to do?
I`m a Latina, nada mas, nothing more
Why do I have to pay for my father crossing that border,
For my father proving your race,
That he didn`t need your language,
He didn`t need your education
Nor did he need your approval
To be what he is today.
You look at my father
You think,
My America is full of these wetbacks
Who made your America
what it is now,
Full of immigrants
Full of ignorance
Full of foreigners
Who will never be white
Yet you forget that once America put up such a fight
With these non-whites,
Theses foreigners
These folks full of color,
And who do you think won?
Look around you.
What do you see,
Nothing but minorities all around
All about
Be careful for soon you will be slapped in the face when you see that you are now working for these foreigners....

poem by Arely Corral
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Boudicca

A past king of East Anglia,
Ruled with men from a foreign shore,
Despite a cultural barrier,
There was no cruel bloody war,
Life was better than twas elsewhere,
But of somethings all weren't aware,
Had all intentions been made clear,
There would have been due cause to fear,
Lest it ends up being misplaced,
Choose carefully where to put trust,
Failure to means what's to be faced,
Could well seem to be unjust,
Alliances don't always last,
When the king died things changed fast,
As their claim to the land was lost,
The common people paid the cost,

Once the Anglian king was dead,
His wishes were not respected,
Liberties were taken instead,
Which ruined all those affected,
Though she'd once been by a king's side,
Boudica's will was defied,
She ended up battered and bruised,
Whilst her three daughters were abused,
The cheated despised their fate,
As the hardships faced caused them pain,
The people boiled inside with hate,
For they had no voice to complain,
Men were burdened with debts and shame,
Due to how hard their lives became,
Thing seemed to get worse by the day,
Which brought about yet more dismay,

A rare chance was happened upon,
That put in doubt the ruler's reign,
For whilst their troops were briefly gone,
People felt their plight need not remain,
They believed that their former queen,
Could make things how they had once been,
Sure their land could be theirs again,
She rallied together the men,
Passions were fuelled a great extent,
Many had call for an outlet,
These people made war their intent,
Giving their foes due cause to fret,
All across the land waves were felt,
Owing to the change of hand dealt,
The rebels obtained much support,
Ready for battles to be fought,

[...] Read more

poem by Christian Lacdael
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We Are 'All' Sunset Travelers

We are 'all' sunset travelers.
Some arising in dawns long past,
Now to find our afternoons...
Rushing to caress an horizon,
Beginning to crest the West.
With assorted memories blessed.

We are 'all' sunset travelers!
And yes,
Some of us do prefer those dawns,
Remembered.
But the rest...
Have come to enjoy,
Such an enlightened ride.

Inspired and Dedicated:
Sandra Fowler
United States

'We are all sunset travelers.
Sandra had stated to me.
And I agree. Thank you Sandra.'

~lsp~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Banyan Tree Vavroovahana Patra

Banyan tree looks beautiful;
Birds fly on the tree are delightful.
Beauteous is the environment;
Beautiful leaves provide merriment.

Green trees provide oxygen daily;
God guys and girls rest beneath the tree gaily.
Glad lovers derive peace;
Glamorous atmosphere provides Divine Bliss.

Valley’s trees attract travelers;
Valiant poets enjoy the beauty with pleasure.
Various birds play on the tree gaily;
Vagabond boys enjoy the beauty enthusiastically.

The tree on road side entices women, men daily;
Travelers enjoy the beauty gaily.
Birds fly gleefully;
Children plays beneath the tree pleasantly.

Nature lures all travelers;
Provides peace pleasure.
Beauty of Nature is enticing;
Poets are delighting.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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The simple fact is this: they are foreigners inside a country which has rejected them. Therefore, these foreigners wherever they go or travel they will be rained down with bullets from everyone. Attacks by members of the resistance will only go up.

quote by Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf
Added by Lucian Velea
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Listening Wind

Mojique sees his village from a nearby hill
Mojique thinks of days before americans came
He sees the foreigners in growing numbers
He sees the foreigners in fancy houses
He thinks of days that he can still remember...now.
Mojique holds a package in his quivering hands
Mojique sends the package to the american man
Softly he glides along the streets and alleys
Up comes the wind that makes them run for cover
He feels the time is surely now or never...more.
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
The dust in my head
The dust in my head
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
(come to) drive them away
Drive them away.u
Mojique buys equipment in the market place
Mojique plants devices in the free trade zone
He feels the wind is lifting up his people
He calls the wind to guide him on his mission
He knows his friend the wind is always standing...by.
Mojique smells the wind that comes from far away
Mojique waits for news in a quiet place
He feels the presence of the wind around him
He feels the power of the past behind him
He has the knowledge of the wind to guide him...on.
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
The dust in my head
The dust in my head
The wind in my heart
The wind in my heart
(come to) drive them away
Drive them away.

song performed by Talking Heads
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the Eleventh

I
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter,"
And proved it -- 't was no matter what he said:
They say his system 't is in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head;
And yet who can believe it? I would shatter
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,
Or adamant, to find the world a spirit,
And wear my head, denying that I wear it.

II
What a sublime discovery 't was to make the
Universe universal egotism,
That all's ideal -- all ourselves! -- I'll stake the
World (be it what you will) that that's no schism.
Oh Doubt! -- if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee;
But which I doubt extremely -- thou sole prism
Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit!
Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.

III
For ever and anon comes Indigestion,
(Not the most "dainty Ariel") and perplexes
Our soarings with another sort of question:
And that which after all my spirit vexes,
Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on,
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes,
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder,
The world, which at the worst's a glorious blunder --

IV
If it be chance; or if it be according
To the old text, still better: -- lest it should
Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the wording,
As several people think such hazards rude.
They're right; our days are too brief for affording
Space to dispute what no one ever could
Decide, and everybody one day will
Know very clearly -- or at least lie still.

V
And therefore will I leave off metaphysical
Discussion, which is neither here nor there:
If I agree that what is, is; then this I call
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair;
The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical:
I don't know what the reason is -- the air
Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks
Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto the Fourteenth

I
If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss --
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.

II
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?

III
For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

IV
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very Suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
Less from disgust of life than dread of death.

V
'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where;
And there's a courage which grows out of fear,
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it -- when the mountains rear
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear
The gulf of rock yawns -- you can't gaze a minute
Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Introduction To The True-Born Englishman

Speak, satire; for there's none can tell like thee
Whether 'tis folly, pride, or knavery
That makes this discontented land appear
Less happy now in times of peace than war?
Why civil feuds disturb the nation more
Than all our bloody wars have done before?
Fools out of favour grudge at knaves in place,
And men are always honest in disgrace;
The court preferments make men knaves in course,
But they which would be in them would be worse.
'Tis not at foreigners that we repine,
Would foreigners their perquisites resign:
The grand contention's plainly to be seen,
To get some men put out, and some put in.
For this our senators make long harangues,
And florid members whet their polished tongues.
Statesmen are always sick of one disease,
And a good pension gives them present ease:
That's the specific makes them all content
With any king and any government.
Good patriots at court abuses rail,
And all the nation's grievances bewail;
But when the sovereign's balsam's once applied,
The zealot never fails to change his side;
And when he must the golden key resign,
The railing spirit comes about again.
Who shall this bubbled nation disabuse,
While they their own felicities refuse,
Who the wars have made such mighty pother,
And now are falling out with one another:
With needless fears the jealous nation fill,
And always have been saved against their will:
Who fifty millions sterling have disbursed,
To be with peace and too much plenty cursed:
Who their old monarch eagerly undo,
And yet uneasily obey the new?
Search, satire, search; a deep incision make;
The poison's strong, the antidote's too weak.
'Tis pointed truth must manage this dispute,
And downright English, Englishmen confute.
Whet thy just anger at the nation's pride,
And with keen phrase repel the vicious tide;
To Englishmen their own beginnings show,
And ask them why they slight their neighbours so.
Go back to elder times and ages past,
And nations into long oblivion cast;
To old Britannia's youthful days retire,
And there for true-born Englishmen inquire.
Britannia freely will disown the name,
And hardly knows herself from whence they came:

[...] Read more

poem by Daniel Defoe
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Don Juan: Canto the Eleventh

I
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter,"
And proved it--'twas no matter what he sald:
They say his system 'tis in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head;
And yet who can believe it! I would shatter
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead,
Or adamant, to find the World a spirit,
And wear my head, denying that I wear it.II
What a sublime discovery 'twas to make the
Universe universal egotism,
That all's ideal--all ourselves: I'll stake the
World (be it what you will) that that's no schism.
Oh Doubt!--if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take thee,
But which I doubt extremely--thou sole prism
Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit!
Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it.III

For ever and anon comes Indigestion
(Not the most "dainty Ariel") and perplexes
Our soarings with another sort of question:
And that which after all my spirit vexes,
Is, that I find no spot where Man can rest eye on,
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes,
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder,
The World, which at the worst's a glorious blunder--IV

If it be chance--or, if it be according
To the Old Text, still better: lest it should
Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the wording,
As several people think such hazards rude.
They're right; our days are too brief for affording
Space to dispute what no one ever could
Decide, and everybody one day will
Know very clearly--or at least lie still.V

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical
Discussion, which is neither here nor there:
If I agree that what is, is; then this I call
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair.
The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical:
I don't know what the reason is--the air
Perhaps; but as I suffer from the shocks
Of illness, I grow much more orthodox.VI

The first attack at once prov'd the Divinity
(But that I never doubted, nor the Devil);
The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity;
The third, the usual Origin of Evil;
The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Don Juan: Canto The Fourteenth

If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.

But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?

For me, I know nought; nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you,
Except perhaps that you were born to die?
And both may after all turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new.
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very Suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
Less from disgust of life than dread of death.

'Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where;
And there's a courage which grows out of fear,
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare
The worst to know it:--when the mountains rear
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear
The gulf of rock yawns,--you can't gaze a minute
Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

'Tis true, you don't - but, pale and struck with terror,
Retire: but look into your past impression!
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror
Of your own thoughts, in all their self--confession,
The lurking bias, be it truth or error,

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)

Introduction

In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.

Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.

Prologue

The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain

mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact

that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals

becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,

who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight

in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.

Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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British Association, Notes of the President's Address

In the very beginnings of science, the parsons, who managed things then,
Being handy with hammer and chisel, made gods in the likeness of men;
Till Commerce arose, and at length some men of exceptional power
Supplanted both demons and gods by the atoms, which last to this hour.
Yet they did not abolish the gods, but they sent them well out of the way,
With the rarest of nectar to drink, and blue fields of nothing to sway.
From nothing comes nothing, they told us, nought happens by chance, but by fate;
There is nothing but atoms and void, all else is mere whims out of date!
Then why should a man curry favour with beings who can-not exist,
To compass some petty promotion in nebulous kingdoms of mist?
But not by the rays of the sun, nor the glittering shafts of the day,
Must the fear of the gods be dispelled, but by words, and their wonderful play.
So treading a path all untrod, the poet-philosopher sings
Of the seeds of the mighty world—the first-beginnings of things;
How freely he scatters his atoms before the beginning of years;
How he clothes them with force as a garment, those small incompressible spheres!
Nor yet does he leave them hard-hearted—he dowers them with love and with hate,
Like spherical small British Asses in infinitesimal state;
Till just as that living Plato, whom foreigners nickname Plateau,
Drops oil in his whisky-and-water (for foreigners sweeten it so),
Each drop keeps apart from the other, enclosed in a flexible skin,
Till touched by the gentle emotion evolved by the prick of a pin:
Thus in atoms a simple collision excites a sensational thrill,
Evolved through all sorts of emotion, as sense, understanding, and will;
(For by laying their heads all together, the atoms, as coun-cillors do,
May combine to express an opinion to every one of them new).
There is nobody here, I should say, has felt true indignation at all,
Till an indignation meeting is held in the Ulster Hall;
Then gathers the wave of emotion, then noble feelings arise,
Till you all pass a resolution which takes every man by surprise.
Thus the pure elementary atom, the unit of mass and of thought,
By force of mere juxtaposition to life and sensation is brought;
So, down through untold generations, transmission of struc-tureless germs
Enables our race to inherit the thoughts of beasts, fishes, and worms.
We honour our fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grand-mothers too;
But how shall we honour the vista of ancestors now in our view?
First, then, let us honour the atom, so lively, so wise, and so small;
The atomists next let us praise, Epicurus, Lucretius, and all;
Let us damn with faint praise Bishop Butler, in whom many atoms combined
To form that remarkable structure, it pleased him to call—his mind.
Last, praise we the noble body to which, for the time, we belong,
Ere yet the swift whirl of the atoms has hurried us, ruth-less, along,
The British Association—like Leviathan worshipped by Hobbes,
The incarnation of wisdom, built up of our witless nobs,
Which will carry on endless discussions, when I, and prob-ably you,
Have melted in infinite azure—in English, till all is blue.

poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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No One Wants To Listen To Him

Why are those people screaming,
At the driver of the vehicle?
He didn't cause the wheels to fall off.
I thought they hired full time mechanics,
To monitor the safety of it.

'They do have full time mechanics.'

Shouldn't they be the ones found,
To be at fault for the wheels falling off?
That is in 'their' area of expertise.
I would think.

'Yeah. I agree.
However...
Here is the dilemma.
You see...
They were not hired because they were qualified.
They were hired because they had the look,
And the presence of being mechanics.
Now...
Those that actually had qualifications,
Were denied because they knew the driver...
And supported his position as the best driver around.'

Oh?
But still,
It makes no sense to hold the driver responsible.

'That has been the argument of the driver.
And he has been the one,
Trying to keep the passengers together.
To get the mechanics that were hired,
To at least make attempts...
To get them all back on the road.
But no one wanted to listen to him,
To get the vehicle fixed.

And yet...
They want to convince everyone within listening distance,
That the driver is the reason they are in their present predicament.'

Perhaps they have other reasons and motivations to blame him.

'Oh. you mean the obvious? '

What other reason could they have?
And who are those other people,
Welding the wheels to the frame of the vehicle?
They 'look' as if they are foreigners.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Goody for Our Side and Your Side Too

Foreigners are people somewhere else,
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
But the scales of Justice balance true,
And tit leads into tat,
So the man who’s at home
When he stays in Rome
Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.

When we leave the limits of the land in which
Our birth certificates sat us,
It does not mean
Just a change of scene,
But also a change of status.
The Frenchman with his fetching beard,
The Scot with his kilt and sporran,
One moment he
May a native be,
And the next may find him foreign.

There’s many a difference quickly found
Between the different races,
But the only essential
Differential
Is living different places.
Yet such is the pride of prideful man,
From Austrians to Australians,
That wherever he is,
He regards as his,
And the natives there, as aliens.

Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,
The foreigner tells the native,
And we’ll work together for our common ends
Like a preposition and a dative.
If our common ends seem mostly mine,
Why not, you ignorant foreigner?
And the native replies
Contrariwise;
And hence, my dears, the coroner.

So mind your manners when a native, please,
And doubly when you visit
And between us all
A rapport may fall
Ecstatically exquisite.
One simple thought, if you have it pat,
Will eliminate the coroner:

[...] Read more

poem by Ogden Nash
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Alas, All Are Strangers

Alone in this world

Don't have a golden dove

Poor is the world of mine

Bared off fortune of life

My soul is tired Humbling alone

My life is like Dark empty deserts

ALAS, Alone im
Alone
My world is Alone Though all the crowd Surrounded all around
All are strangers Foreigners or not Relatives are but!

Long ago the smile deserted my world

Sorrows of the life surrounded my soul

Betrayers came always to my road

Love has left my soul alone and unknown

My love ones destroyed

My soul and has gone

The path of love has been

For me dark and misrable

Alas, that only stony hearts

I have met at life's stormy roads

Though my love always was so sincere and boundless for all

But, the love was always a traitor full of lies

I never wanted to have golden clothes

But my life was such a miserable stormy winter

Hard to pass The sincere love was my heart's only desire

But the path of love always has been for me

Full of lies and pain

[...] Read more

poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Bohémiens En Voyage (Gypsies On The Road)

La tribu prophétique aux prunelles ardentes
Hier s'est mise en route, emportant ses petits
Sur son dos, ou livrant à leurs fiers appétits
Le trésor toujours prêt des mamelles pendantes.

Les hommes vont à pied sous leurs armes luisantes
Le long des chariots où les leurs sont blottis,
Promenant sur le ciel des yeux appesantis
Par le morne regret des chimères absentes.

Du fond de son réduit sablonneux, le grillon,
Les regardant passer, redouble sa chanson;
Cybèle, qui les aime, augmente ses verdures,

Fait couler le rocher et fleurir le désert
Devant ces voyageurs, pour lesquels est ouvert
L'empire familier des ténèbres futures.

Gypsies Traveling

The prophetical tribe, that ardent eyed people,
Set out last night, carrying their children
On their backs, or yielding to those fierce appetites
The ever ready treasure of pendulous breasts.

The men travel on foot with their gleaming weapons
Alongside the wagons where their kin are huddled,
Surveying the heavens with eyes rendered heavy
By a mournful regret for vanished illusions.

The cricket from the depths of his sandy retreat
Watches them as they pass, and louder grows his song;
Cybele, who loves them, increases her verdure,

Makes the desert blossom, water spurt from the rock
Before these travelers for whom is opened wide
The familiar domain of the future's darkness.

— Translated by William Aggeler

Gipsies on the Road

The tribe of seers, last night, began its match
With burning eyes, and shouldering its young
To whose ferocious appetites it swung
The wealth of hanging breasts that nought can parch.

The men, their weapons glinting in the rays,
Walk by the convoy where their folks are carted,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Ate

-An Ode poem-

Strophe:
Shadows know the size of her love,
as night passes from her crossroad,
firm owls call to the stardom above,
while her songs back in time abode.

Stable strings the scene's stillness,
where her laughter waves in ether,
in small hours' thought's steepness,
advances silence, soft as a feather.

The owls stared with eyes of amber
a deity descended with stars' glare,
her eyes submitting love and candor,
that ghost time travelers, shared.

Antistrophe:
Brilliant the moon in ventured glory,
above shapes and daunting wraiths,
her radiance passed through faiths,
caressing travelers and their story.

Kindly advanced in valleys of blooms,
as night conveyed with each breath,
bestowing a Sovereign kiss of death,
with fates weaving the lethal looms.

Epode:
Ate smiles are beguiling and dismal,
darkened is her reign and abysmal,
hence enchanted souls dwell in void,
with acheronian passages destroyed.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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