Acquadiluna

Heilige Wille und Laune des Zufalls, der nicht nur Licht und Schatten zusammen bringt, sondern auch heilt die Seele wenn Sie springt, gieß in meinem Hals den Wein von damals! Damals, wenn ich mich über blasses Schicksal und seine Schleier lustig gemacht hatte, und ging ziellos durch die grüne Matte, dann waren Kismets Wörter mir egal. Egal ahndet Sie Ruhe und Eile, Gier und Größzügigkeit. Wer versucht, findet nur Scheitern vor seinem Lebensweg. Alles führt uns in dem bestimmten Zweck. Die Welt hört nicht unsere tiefe Sehnsucht und wir geben auf nach einer Weile.

Outshine me, oh deceiving-brightened stars: while you play thy play I will go away; away, and I will not be found the day when again rises the shadow of Mars. Throw thy trembling dice, it concerns me not: for a tool I try not to be; a fool, certainly, I am, but in my own room where I decide where stands the ending dot. Outshine me, and you won't see me, oh stars, whose bright allures many a moth; but I, in the shade of four narcissi lie and shall not move for vengeful, bellic Mars. I hark the sounds, the freedom of new chains, the new-coloured coming of sweets and pains.

“Schubert’s Winterreise, yes. I wish you were there, you should have seen your uncle, you seldom get to see him smiling. And all tidied as well! He let your ant and I take care of his hair. I don’t know why musicians are always so unkempt… they make it a matter of pride for some reason! When young and pressured unto marriage I told your grandma I would marry only a neat musician. I’m sure she searched for one, but couldn’t find one, ha. When we were done with your uncle we couldn’t believe it. You look like dad, your aunt said, and at that moment I think we understood why he never brushes. Anyway, he

Weakened ramparts with few blows gone let through the rising sun; I, a frontline soldier, a pawn its deathly rays do shun so as to avoid the aura of hateful, dancing Aurora! And even though I run past the blind stairs of cruel fate await the scars of pains innate. Here your words hurt even more than your warm silence did; Here I serve but a mute goddess who in the dusk doth hid to spread a vacuous, truthful word, but only one, not flocks like birds, and dim all the lights lit; And soothe my long-trembling spirits, for great pains great cares do merit. Lighter than white flying feathers or the very, thin air, I crawl past mountains, past wea

Away! to unsuspecting highs, the peaks lying dormant bordered only by a grey sky, bringer of the torrent; Away, indeed, not for a day or a fragile year but for noble seasons of gay and leafy frontier; Here, where cries die out in time crushed by indifference no corner stands to be called Heim as did know Icarus; Freyja knew this too. She’s now gone, where… I wish to find out so she unveils what I ignore and fades all that I doubt. Away! tomb of unsung heroes rest among dry stardust; quietly there I’ll plant the rose of love and breathing lust, of lust for love and precious gold and lasting victory over the grey, the dead a

Day after day of toil after cruel toil, and drop after drop of cold, patient sweat while going barefoot through this soundless threat that the waters of stagnancy doth roil Pain after pain, both yawning and plenty as scarce were the songs of a nightingale who flew shyly along, his voice then stale and weak to reach the ears of many Aber beyond those spiteful lone hours I have glimpsed Freyja’s holy radiance at the bottom of a cup of mint tea Äh, may the great century dawn flowers to embrace us in their sweet ambience while I refill the porcelain with tea

Run through noiseless woods in time  suspended and tread on the eons worn leaves of ash or of the mystic brook the waters splash to reach the clearing of magic splendid where once lethargic faeries shall greet thee, thy name aloud in soft voices speaking, thy through centuries absent smile seeking to restore it for the lost world to see Ashen thy eyes have turn’d; revamped are now see then the gay play of life before us and tell me whether it feels real or not Canst thou the glee and worth of life avow? Is that soil at which I anger full cuss where we can get our elation long sought?

Past curtains dyed with purple in golden threads adorned a throng of weightless clouds hurtle to a horizon scorned for what it brings, we cannot say, blindfolded as we are, unsure of what’s night and what’s day since far has fled the star. I stare the cosmic spectacle sans hope or joy or dreams; a point, small, blank, skeptical, unlit by the sun beams I feel I am in this my room in this palace forsaken that in the sky dances with gloom until I can awaken. Finally, I think, I can see, and Plato lied to us; better is the North sea and words unisonous and sweet dyonisian wine than this altitude which I cannot claim to be mine and m