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PrayerI thank you, merciful Creator,
Whoever you, up there, might be,
That I was not proclaimed a traitor
And no one yet imprisoned me.
I thank you with my heart, Almighty
That yet my tongue wasn't ripped out,
That I am for my word still fighting,
And for my liberty I shout.
I thank you, Owner of existence,
From you I learnt all that I must,
Against offense I hold resistance
And I am used to pure disgust.
I thank you with my soul, Redeemer,
That time is limited for me.
A fear of fools: One day the spirit
Will leave the body finally.
And so, I pray to thee, Soul-Bearer
Let me dissolve in haze, I tell.
Dull is eternity in heaven
And on the earth I've seen my hell.
Feline VersesIn gloom,
Invisible to us
The hour of our life goes past,
Our soul will picture time.
So lucid that we cannot tell
What whiskers warn us in this hell
Our soul shall be sublime.
Not born to adulate,
But higher matters contemplate,
Our soul will picture crime,
The sense of tails reanimate,
And on that day, the Angel Great
Will send a joyous sign.
Questions and Answers -RussianТы спрашиваешь: "Почему,
Когда нам на душе тепло и ясно,
То в небе серо и ненастно
И плакать хочется ему?"
Я отвечаю: "Небо плачет,
Слезой смывая горе из души твоей,
Horizon - Rough TranslationOften I dreamt of flying as free as a sparrow,
But my mental-outlook was ever so slightly too narrow
Free and affectionate wind, the sun and the sea,
The trees and the flowers lived in my horizon and me.
I never mastered philosophy, maths or statistics.
My mental-outlook was always puerile and simplistic.
Only the airborne delights and igneous sorrows
Leave me with hope to expand my horizon tomorrow.
I never named myself Milton, or other great names,
Antediluvian still my horizon remains.
Only the stars and the grain, only death and rebirth
Live in my soul and complete my existence on earth.
I never served for my neighbour, even be it God's will
My mental-outlook is shameful and primitive still.
But you shall not fail to remember our sacred affair,
That earth and humanity shall re-unite in the air.
Only the airborne delights and the igneous sorrows
Give me the hope and prevent me from dying tomorrow
I will not fail to remember, what in me remains:
The stars in your eyes and the tender,
The Coast of DonauOh, Coast of Donau, I will leer,
Upon the wrecking of your beauty,
Appoint me, Father, with the duty,
To resurrect the ever dear,
And conquer growing vines of fear.
Impart to me a dying daydream
Of adolescent ages lost,
Of earthly pleasures and their cost,
Which I have payed when they betrayed me.
I stood upon the Golden Coast,
Wishing the Sun Bed for my own,
To share with no one; and alone
With all my greed to get the most.
Voluptuous waves of crystal waters,
I saw in you my only Grail.
But then - deception, like a veil
Has taken hope, which I besought for.
There is a lot that I remember:
The gentle whispering of trees,
The sense of sensing, being pleased
When cold and light are bound together...
Oh, Coast of Donau, what is there
For me to mourn for else, than thee?
I have none, but a memory,
And something hostile in the air...
Then it was gone. The lonely river,
Brought plague and heartache with it's tide,
The lungs were scorching on one side,
And eyelids closing on the other.
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More