The Blood Horse
GAMARRA is a dainty steed,
Strong, black, and of a noble breed,
Full of fire, and full of bone,
With all his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within!
His mane is like a river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,
And his pace as swift as light.
Look,—how ’round his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float!
Sinewy strength is on his reins,
And the red blood gallops through his veins;
Richer, redder, never ran
Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,—
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O’Brien’s blood itself!
He, who hath no peer, was born
Here, upon a red March morn:
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred,
And the last of that great line
Trod like one of a race divine!
And yet,—he was but friend to one
Who fed him at the set of sun,
By some lone fountain ’fringed with green:
With him, a roving Bedouin,
He liv’d,—(none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day,)—
And died untam’d upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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The Iron Horse
No song is mine of Arab steed--
My courser is of nobler blood,
And cleaner limb and fleeter speed,
And greater strength and hardihood
Than ever cantered wild and free
Across the plains of Araby.
Go search the level desert land
From Sana on to Samarcand--
Wherever Persian prince has been,
Or Dervish, Sheik, or Bedouin,
And I defy you there to point
Me out a steed the half so fine--
From tip of ear to pastern-joint--
As this old iron horse of mine.
You do not know what beauty is--
You do not know what gentleness
His answer is to my caress!--
Why, look upon this gait of his,--
A touch upon his iron rein--
He moves with such a stately grace
The sunlight on his burnished mane
Is barely shaken in its place;
And at a touch he changes pace,
And, gliding backward, stops again.
And talk of mettle--Ah! my friend,
Such passion smolders in his breast
That when awakened it will send
A thrill of rapture wilder than
E'er palpitated heart of man
When flaming at its mightiest.
And there's a fierceness in his ire--
A maddened majesty that leaps
Along his veins in blood of fire,
Until the path his vision sweeps
Spins out behind him like a thread
Unraveled from the reel of time,
As, wheeling on his course sublime,
The earth revolves beneath his tread.
Then stretch away, my gallant steed!
Thy mission is a noble one:
Thou bear'st the father to the son,
And sweet relief to bitter need;
Thou bear'st the stranger to his friends;
Thou bear'st the pilgrim to the shrine,
And back again the prayer he sends
That God will prosper me and mine,--
The star that on thy forehead gleams
Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.
Then speed thee on thy glorious race!
The mother waits thy ringing pace;
The father leans an anxious ear
The thunder of thy hooves to hear;
The lover listens, far away,
To catch thy keen exultant neigh;
And, where thy breathings roll and rise,
The husband strains his eager eyes,
And laugh of wife and baby-glee
Ring out to greet and welcome thee.
Then stretch away! and when at last
The master's hand shall gently check
Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast,
The world will pat thee on the neck.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Fathers
Our fathers all were poor,
Poorer our fathers' fathers;
Beyond, we dare not look.
We, the sons, keep store
Of tarnished gold that gathers
Around us from the night,
Record it in this book
That, when the line is drawn,
Credit and creditor gone,
Column and figure flown,
Will open into light.
Archaic fevers shake
Our healthy flesh and blood
Plumped in the passing day
And fed with pleasant food.
The fathers' anger and ache
Will not, will not away
And leave the living alone,
But on our careless brows
Faintly their furrows engrave
Like veinings in a stone,
Breathe in the sunny house
Nightmare of blackened bone,
Cellar and choking cave.
Panics and furies fly
Through our unhurried veins,
Heavenly lights and rains
Purify heart and eye,
Past agonies purify
And lay the sullen dust.
The angers will not away.
We hold our fathers' trust,
Wrong, riches, sorrow and all
Until they topple and fall,
And fallen let in the day.
poem by Edwin Muir
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The Patteran
From over the leagues of ice and snow, and the miles of scorching sand;
From back of the days of long ago, and the lonely sea and land—
To the end of the world and our Gipsy race, to the death of our dark-eyed line,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine,
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine—
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.
I have given them health and strength, pure blood, clear skins for a glorious youth;
I have set in their souls contempt for sham, and a deathless regard for truth;
I have bequeathed the spirit to fight, I have given the will to rise,
And the slumbering fires of Hate and Love in their dreaming, dreaming eyes.
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.
I have given the love for their native land, wherever that land may be
(My children came from the East, my friends, and round by the Northern Sea),
And a son of a son of mine enemy, to the end of his treacherous line,
Shall be stricken to earth, if he dare but speak, by a son of a son of mine.
That the world shall know and my name shall glow in the light of the aftershine,
I have set the lines on my children’s palms as my fathers did on mine.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The River of Blood
It’s the river of blood
Initiated by the enemies of God
And when advised too or told to stop
They just give you the nod
The nod of ignorance and cruelty
The nod of no life and no feel
As they are told about they’re evilness
They believe that none of it is real
It’s the river of blood
That flows down a dark and red stream
And as I dip my hand in, it feels like sour, bitter cream
It’s the river of blood
The river of cruelty and pain
The river of blood
The river that flows in vain
The river that will never end
The river full of the dead
The river where they remain silently hopeless
The river where the majority of them bled
It’s this river of blood where I inject my power and strength from
It’s this river full of blood where my victory will soon come
The river of blood, the river that will soon contain me
It’s this river where my blood has long sought to be
The river of blood that shall soon end with an atrocious fight
The river of blood, the river that will no longer stay at sight.
poem by Marria Attar
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Fathers Eyes
I may not be every mothers dream for her little girl,
And my face may not grace the mind of everyone in the world.
But thats all right, as long as I can have one wish I pray:
When people look inside my life, I want to hear them say,
Shes got her fathers eyes,
Her fathers eyes;
Eyes that find the good in things,
When good is not around;
Eyes that find the source of help,
When help just cant be found;
Eyes full of compassion,
Seeing every pain;
Knowing what youre going through
And feeling it the same.
Just like my fathers eyes,
My fathers eyes,
My fathers eyes,
Just like my fathers eyes.
And on that day when we will pay for all the deeds we have done,
Good and bad theyll all be had to see by everyone.
And when youre called to stand and tell just what you saw in me,
More than anything I know, I want your words to be,
She had her fathers eyes,
Her fathers eyes;
Eyes that found the good in things,
When good was not around;
Eyes that found the source of help,
When help would not be found;
Eyes full of compassion,
Seeing every pain;
Knowing what youre going through,
And feeling it the same.
Just like my fathers eyes,
My fathers eyes,
My fathers eyes,
Just like my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes,
My fathers eyes,
Just like my fathers eyes.
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Alliance
This is the weird of a world-old folk,
That not till the last link breaks,
Not till the night is blackest,
The blood of Hengist wakes.
When the sun is black in heaven,
The moon as blood above,
And the earth is full of hatred,
This people tells its love.
In change, eclipse, and peril,
Under the whole world's scorn,
By blood and death and darkness
The Saxon peace is sworn;
That all our fruit be gathered,
And all our race take hands,
And the sea be a Saxon river
That runs through Saxon lands.
Lo! not in vain we bore him;
Behold it! not in vain,
Four centuries' dooms of torture
Choked in the throat of Spain,
Ere priest or tyrant triumph -
We know how well - we know -
Bone of that bone can whiten,
Blood of that blood can flow.
Deep grows the hate of kindred,
Its roots take hold on hell;
No peace or praise can heal it,
But a stranger heals it well.
Seas shall be red as sunsets,
And kings' bones float as foam,
And heaven be dark with vultures,
The night our son comes home.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Fathers Eyes
(by eric clapton)
Sailing down behind the sun,
Waiting for my prince to come.
Praying for the healing rain
To restore my soul again.
Just a toerag on the run.
How did I get here?
What have I done?
When will all my hopes arise?
How will I know him?
When I look in my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
When I look in my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
Then the light begins to shine
And I hear those ancient lullabies.
And as I watch this seedling grow,
Feel my heart start to overflow.
Where do I find the words to say?
How do I teach him?
What do we play?
Bit by bit, Ive realized
Thats when I need them,
Thats when I need my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
Thats when I need my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
Then the jagged edge appears
Through the distant clouds of tears.
Im like a bridge that was washed away;
My foundations were made of clay.
As my soul slides down to die.
How could I lose him?
What did I try?
Bit by bit, Ive realized
That he was here with me;
I looked into my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
I looked into my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
I looked into my fathers eyes.
My fathers eyes.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Rovers
Some born of homely parents
For ages settled down—
The steady generations
Of village, farm, and town:
And some of dusky fathers
Who wandered since the flood—
The fairest skin or darkest
Might hold the roving blood—
Some born of brutish peasants,
And some of dainty peers,
In poverty or plenty
They pass their early years;
But, born in pride of purple,
Or straw and squalid sin,
In all the far world corners
The wanderers are kin.
A rover or a rebel,
Conceived and born to roam,
As babies they will toddle
With faces turned from home;
They’ve fought beyond the vanguard
Wherever storm has raged,
And home is but a prison
They pace like lions caged.
They smile and are not happy;
They sing and are not gay;
They weary, yet they wander;
They love, and cannot stay;
They marry, and are single
Who watch the roving star,
For, by the family fireside,
Oh, lonely men they are!
They die of peace and quiet—
The deadly ease of life;
They die of home and comfort;
They live in storm and strife;
No poverty can tie them,
Nor wealth nor place restrain—
Girl, wife, or child might draw them,
But they’ll be gone again!
Across the glowing desert;
Through naked trees and snow;
Across the rolling prairies
The skies have seen them go;
They fought to where the ocean
Receives the setting sun;—
But where shall fight the rovers
When all the lands are won?
They thirst on Greenland snowfields,
On Never-Never sands;
Where man is not to conquer
They conquer barren lands;
They feel that most are cowards,
That all depends on ‘nerve,’
They lead who cannot follow,
They rule who cannot serve.
Across the plains and ranges,
Away across the seas,
On blue and green horizons
They camp by twos and threes;
They hold on stormy borders
Of states that trouble earth
The honour of the country
That only gave them birth.
Unlisted, uncommissioned,
Untaught of any school,
In far-away world corners
Unconquered tribes they rule;
The lone hand and revolver—
Sad eyes that never quail—
The lone hand and the rifle
That win where armies fail.
They slumber sound where murder
And treachery are bare—
The pluck of self-reliance,
The pluck of past despair;
Thin brown men in pyjamas—
The thin brown wiry men!—
The helmet and revolver
That lie beside the pen.
Through drought and desolation
They won the way Out Back;
The commonplace and selfish
Have followed on their track;
They conquer lands for others,
For others find the gold,
But where shall go the rovers
When all the lands are old?
A rover and a rebel—
And so the worlds commence!
Their hearts shall beat as wildly
Ten generations hence;
And when the world is crowded—
’Tis signed and sealed by Fate—
The roving blood will rise to make
The countries desolate.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The King Of England
In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushed
Like the bird's song beneath unnatural night,
And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushed
The rose imperial of our delight,
Then, even then, though no man cried 'He comes,'
And no man turned to greet him passing there,
With phantom heralds challenging renown
And silent-throbbing drums
I saw the King of England, hale and fair,
Ride out with a great train through London town.
Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shield
The lions bore the dint of many a lance,
And up and down his mantle's azure field
Were strewn the lilies plucked in famous France.
Before him went with banner floating wide
The yeoman breed that served his honour best,
And mixed with these his knights of noble blood;
But in the place of pride
His admirals in billowy lines abreast
Convoyed him close like galleons on the flood.
Full of a strength unbroken showed his face
And his brow calm with youth's unclouded dawn,
But round his lips were lines of tenderer grace
Such as no hand but Time's hath ever drawn.
Surely he knew his glory had no part
In dull decay, nor unto Death must bend,
Yet surely too of lengthening shadows dreamed
With sunset in his heart,
So brief his beauty now, so near the end,
And now so old and so immortal seemed.
O King among the living, these shall hail
Sons of thy dust that shall inherit thee:
O King of men that die, though we must fail
Thy life is breathed from thy triumphant sea.
O man that servest men by right of birth,
Our hearts' content thy heart shall also keep,
Thou too with us shalt one day lay thee down
In our dear native earth,
Full sure the King of England, while we sleep,
For ever rides abroad, through London town.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Great, for just a moment in time
Fire in my belly,
Inspiration had struck,
like a lightning bolt in the desert,
From the Clouds onto the sand,
A moment until the dust settles.
My Eyes, they are widened,
To see all, that surrounds me,
I grab Pen, I grab Pad,
and I write, and I scribble, and I draw large sketches,
And let my belly fire grow and devastate,
The fire becomes similar to a bush fire,
my pencil or pen writes across the pages of my pad,
and the ink and lead consume the lines and blank spaces.
And make creations of those in my mind.
A lion you become, Part of a bohemian Pride,
looking down upon your art with a great flowing mane,
and a roar of pride as you claw a title across the top.
Inspiration had struck,
And it makes you feel strong, powerful, even invisible,
And Proud.
You become a lion in its pride with a flowing great mane,
like lightning striking down on a desert,
A belly fire crawling across the bush,
You become Great, For just a moment in time.
poem by Sam Seymour
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A dead world
as thy light turned to darkness
As thy world to black from blue
As thy eyes turned from bright to dull
And thy lust for blood became strong
As thy hair turned blood red
As thy clothes turned to black
As thy hands, feet became clawed
And thy lust for blood became strong
As thy people died with red, black
As thy city, town destroyed
As thy hunt for her started
And thy lust for blood became strong
The world died, so did I...
poem by Sesamarna Syfyre
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England's Answer
Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban;
Little used to lie down at the bidding of any man.
Flesh of the flesh that I bred, bone of the bone that I bare;
Stark as your sons shall be -- stern as your fathers were.
Deeper than speech our love, stronger than life our tether,
But we do not fall on the neck nor kiss when we come together.
My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by;
Sons, I have borne many sons, but my dugs are not dry.
Look, I have made ye a place and opened wide the doors,
That ye may talk together, your Barons and Councillors --
Wards of the Outer March, Lords of the Lower Seas,
Ay, talk to your gray mother that bore you on her knees! --
That ye may talk together, brother to brother's face --
Thus for the good of your peoples -- thus for the Pride of the Race.
Also, we will make promise. So long as The Blood endures,
I shall know that your good is mine: ye shall feel that my strength is yours:
In the day of Armageddon, at the last great fight of all,
That Our House stand together and the pillars do not fall.
Draw now the threefold knot firm on the ninefold bands,
And the Law that ye make shall be law after the rule of your lands.
This for the waxen Heath, and that for the Wattle-bloom,
This for the Maple-leaf, and that for the southern Broom.
The Law that ye make shall be law and I do not press my will,
Because ye are Sons of The Blood and call me Mother still.
Now must ye speak to your kinsmen and they must speak to you,
After the use of the English, in straight-flung words and few.
Go to your work and be strong, halting not in your ways,
Balking the end half-won for an instant dole of praise.
Stand to your work and be wise -- certain of sword and pen,
Who are neither children nor Gods, but men in a world of men!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Firing-Line
They are creeping on through the cornfields yet, and they clamber amongst the rocks,
Ere they rush to stab with the bayonet and smash with the rifle-stocks.
And many are wounded, many are dead—some reel as if drunk with wine,
And fling them down on a blood-stained bed, and sleep in the firing-line.
And they dream, perhaps, of the days shut back, while the shrapnel shrieks and crashes,
And field-guns hammer and rifles crack, and the blood of a comrade splashes.
In horrible shambles they rest a while from murder by right divine;
They curse or jest, and they frown or smile—and they dream in the firing-line.
In the dreadful din of a ghastly fight they are shooting, murdering, men;
In the smothering silence of ghastly peace we murder with tongue and pen.
Where is heard the tap of the typewriter—where the track of reform they mine—
Where they stand to the frame or the linotype—we are all in the firingline.
Weary and parched in the world-old war we are fighting with quivering nerves;
The dead are our fathers who charged before, and the children are our reserves.
In the world-old war, with the world-old wrongs that shall last while the stars still shine,
My comrades and I, who would sing their songs, are all in the firing-line.
There are some of us cowards who hug the ground, and some of us reckless who jest;
And some of us careless who slumber sound, and some of us weary who rest.
There are some of us dreamers, whose beds seem soft, and O heart! O friend of mine!
The brightest and bravest of earth too oft lie drunk in the firing-line.
But the sleeper may wake ere the fort we storm, and the coward be first to dare,
And the weak grow strong, and the drunkard reform, and the dreamer strike hardest there.
God give me strength in my country’s need, though shame and disgrace be mine,
And death be certain, to rise and lead when we charge from the firing-line.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Crying For Arab Martyrs
crying for Arab martyrs'
who have died
who are dying
because they believe
in freedom
because they believe
they others should be free
in black rose freedom
crying for Arabs
as we have cried
for others
who were prepared
to die
so others
could be free
in black rose freedom
crying because
these younger youth
have died
not just
before their rightful time
but have so young died
before older men
in black rose freedom
crying because
in this world today
it is necessary
for the ordinary
bravest best civilians
to die
so others might can be free
in black rose freedom
do not blame Arab
dictator
for civilian deaths
in Aleppo? ? ?
without Russian Chinese
political muscle flexing
merciless
backing blood would not flow
in black rose freedom
blood red black rose withers
poem by Terence George Craddock
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African King
It's rare to see your lion face
For most would stay away,
Yet if you don't give me the chase,
I'd see your mane like hay...
Ten thousand strands of fine-formed fur
Adorn your majesty...
Gold ribboned bands that somehow stir
My sense of chivalry.
Yes, royal blood flows through your veins,
Enough to warm my heart...
Till I recall what vicious pains
As sovereign you'll impart.
African king, yet savage beast,
You rule your world with fear.
While in your eyes I seem the least,
I'm not all I appear.
For I'm a hunter, born and bred,
A carnivore like you.
I'll throw my spears till I get fed...
Most times, my aim stays true...
I've seen your glowing eyes at night,
Your silhouette so close...
I've seen the fearful birds take flight,
As tension overflows...
As long as I respect your space
And you respect what's mine,
We'll each survive by God's good grace
And we'll both get on fine.
There's room enough and game enough
To live our whole lives through...
So if you let me do my stuff,
I'll keep away from you...
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'African King'.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Arabian Beauty
It gallops across the sunny slopes,
The grass so green on this little hill,
As it plunges into a field of flowers below,
The wind blows strong,
As if to say, ' Come my friend, frolic all day! '
It rears it's head, and tosses it mane,
It's muscles rippling like the surface of a lake,
This horse is a hard one to tame.
It's speed is like lightning flashing across a
midnight sky,
It's eyes are bright and shimmer like stars,
It's coat glimmers on the moonlit beaches,
And shines on a cloudless day.
It's hooves are as black as tar
And carries this large horse a long way.
It's fearless heart is as big as the moon,
This horse is the
Arabian Beauty.
poem by T.R. Crissian
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El-Zorab
An Arab comes, looking like hell,
His voice is weak, he can't speak well,
– O, pasha, please, don't be severe,
From Bab-el-Manteb I've come here
My EL-Zorab to sell.
All Arabs then approach with care
To see my horse with reddish hair.
I pull the reins, he trots a while
I love him for his graceful style,
I'd die to leave him there.
But my three kids do starve in pain
Their mouth is dry, I go insane,
And my wife's misery is great,
Because her breasts are in such state
They can't give milk again!
My dearest ones are cold as ice,
But you, O, pasha, you are nice!
Now buy the horse! I'm poor, indeed!
Give me some money on the steed,
Be good and name a price!
He takes the horse and rides about
Slowly and fast, to clear his doubt;
Then pasha's eyes begin to glow
Touches his beard and his thoughts flow,
His soul is somewhere out.
– One thousand sequins, you agree?
– How noble, pasha, you can be!
It's more than ever crossed my mind!
May God be good to you and kind
For how you're paying me!
The Arab takes with smiling eyes
The golden sequins, his dear prize –
From now on they will not be sad,
From now on they'll be rich and glad
Won't beg from foreign guys!
Won't live in tent and breathe the smoke
His kids won't beg from other folk,
His wife will be as was before
And they themselves will give the poor
Some money when they're broke! –
He grabs the money on a whim
And leaves; the fate is good to him.
Runs like a drunkard, out of mind,
But suddenly he looks behind,
Then stops, his sight is dim.
Gazes the money from the sale,
Then falters and his face turns pale,
Looks at the horse, into his eyes;
And walking slowly, deeply sighs,
Comes back along the trail.
He grabs his neck, he's crying, too,
Caresses him, feeling so blue,
And tells him: O, my lion dear,
I know for you it's very clear
That I am selling you.
My children will not play again
By putting leaves on your thick mane,
And will not lead you to the spring
And figs from now to you won't bring,
They'll wait for you in vain!
They won't come out day after day
To reach out from the place they stay,
To lift them on the horse's back!
I will not see them on the track
How laugh and keep my way!
How shall I still my children's yell,
To my sweet wife what shall I tell
When El-Zorab she will not see,
The Arabs all will mock at me,
My life will be like hell!
My wife, Raira, it is true
Now, El-Zorab won't come to you
To walk together, feel the breeze,
He will not fall down on his knees
The way he used to do!
And Ben-Ardun, your husband dear,
Won't fly again, having no fear,
To chase a hawk in its swift fly
And shoot it down from the blue sky,
You will not laugh and cheer!
You will not stare with happy face
His clothes, which flutter in the race,
And on the ground won't put your ear
To hear the trot so loud and clear
When comes back to his place!
O, my dear horse! You are my core,
But I'll not see you anymore,
How with your nose you sniff the ground
How your thick tail you move around
And in the sky you soar!
How every time you chew your foam,
How jumps your mane when we two roam.
How when you gallop people scream
And how you rush like a big stream
When we're away from home!
The desert knew us, I maintain,
And the horizon was in pain –
From now on who'll take care of you?
Who will protect you, as I do,
From winds and heavy rain?
They won't speak gently to you, dear,
They'll curse you often around here
And they will beat you with the whip
And you'll endure their brutal grip;
And you will starve in fear!
They'll treat you badly on the track
And you will die like a poor hack!...
O, pasha, I don't need your pay
Without my horse I'll go astray
I want to have him back.
The pasha frowns: "Are you insane?"
My janissaries, it is plain,
Can throw you to the dogs by force
Because right now he is my horse,
So stop pleading in vain!
– Your horse? Come on, then tell me who
Has raised him, pasha: I or you?
Whose arm obeys, when he's a ram,
To turn him into a good lamb?
Not yours, but mine, it's true!
He is my horse! And on a whim,
I would fight God, for I'm not slim,
Be nice, that's all I do request,
Because your horses are the best,
But I have only him!
Therefore, I ask you to be fair!
Allah is just and from up there
He'll judge and see how you behave
And how you treat me like a slave,
But you don't really care!
The world will curse you, you will see,
With what you do, they disagree!
I'll go to beg from other guys
But from your coins I turn my eyes
What good can give to me?
Then pasha orders, once, not twice,
"Strip him and beat him as a price!"
The eunucks jump from their place –
The Arab turns with pallid face
His sight is cold as ice...
Pulls out a dagger, looks ahead,
And blood is flowing, thick and red,
When cuts the throat wearing a mane
And in a blink, without much pain,
The noble horse falls dead.
Pasha is looking, feels a chill,
The Spachies shudder at the kill,
The Arab falls onto his knees
Kisses the blood that seems to freeze
On those eyes, which are still.
Then turns around, he groans and sobs
He drops the dagger, his throat clogs,
– My kids will take revenge on you,
Now if you want, cut me in two
And throw me to your dogs!
poem by George Coşbuc, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Finish Line
Wind blows snow outside my windows
Crowd below runs wild in the streets
Two rented brothers race down two separate alleys
Heading for the finish line
Down in the train yard out by the stockyard
Butchers with aprons hack meat in the snow
Blood has the brothers pulsing with envy
Heading for the finish line
Two rented brothers. their faces keep changing
Just like these feelings I have for you
And nothings forever not even five minutes
When youre headed for the finish line
Down in the depot out by the meat rack
Down by the tunnels surrounding the jail
Prisoners are marching in squares and in circles
Theyre heading for the finish line
Theyre lining up for noahs ark
Theyre stabbing each other in the dark
Saluting a flag made of some rich guys socks
Heading for the finish line
Close to the line the ice is cracking
Two rented feelings sitting in the stands
Two mothers, two fathers and both of them are paid for
All of a sudden it comes back to me
Just up ahead is the finish line
Two rented referees and two checkered rags
Out of the corner of my eye comes a dark horse with black wings
Headed for the finish line
Im five years old the room is fuzzy
I think theres also a very young girl
Its hard to remember what happened exactly
As Im staring at the finish line
First came fire then came light
Then came feeling then cane sight
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The World’s Lover
My eyes are full of lonely mirth:
Reeling with want and worn with scars,
For pride of every stone on earth,
I shake my spear at all the stars.
A live bat beats my crest above,
Lean foxes nose where I have trod,
And on my naked face the love
Which is the loneliness of God.
Outlawed: since that great day gone by--
When before prince and pope and queen
I stood and spoke a blasphemy--
'Behold the summer leaves are green.'
They cursed me: what was that to me
Who in that summer darkness furled,
With but an owl and snail to see,
Had blessed and conquered all the world?
They bound me to the scourging-stake,
They laid their whips of thorn on me;
I wept to see the green rods break,
Though blood be beautiful to see.
Beneath the gallows' foot abhorred
The crowds cry 'Crucify!' and 'Kill!'
Higher the priests sing, 'Praise the Lord,
The warlock dies'; and higher still
Shall heaven and earth hear one cry sent
Even from the hideous gibbet height,
'Praise to the Lord Omnipotent,
The vultures have a feast to-night.'
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fine Line
How would I know about your life
How about a long night
How do you follow the sun
How do you stay under the thumb
Theres a fine line between us
Such a fine fine line
Theres a fine line between us
And its always on my mind
What can you say to make me realize
The full moon in your eyes
You probably know now that youre waking up
You still feel shaken up
Theres a fine line between us
All the way
Theres a fine line between us
Cant waste another day
They take you in their arms and whisper
What you want to hear dont you fall
They show you all their charms and whisper
Dont you shed a tear dont you fall
song performed by by Cars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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