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Before the Dawn
Креатив прет безудержно - но на английском. Простите великодушно, друзья френды...
My master, how can you, who loves the light,
Whose very name is luminous in nature
Content yourself with this beshadowed blight,
This twilight realm where colors lose their stature?
It's in the nature of the solar sphere
To render blind to lesser hues of splendour.
If it's illumination you revere
You'll find you have to choose the darker spectra.
My master, how can you, who are so kind,
Whose hands are gentle as a touch of snow,
Commit these acts of cruelty refined
Dispense so calmly torture, pain and woe?
Unruly child, as years wash away
The good and evil melt and lose distinction.
One has to gird the heart with fierce restraint
And force a shape upon their lucid tincture.
My master, how can you, who are so proud,
Whose every gesture speaks of domination,
Accede to daily bend your knee and bow
Before that horror, that abomination?
The moonrise, child. Do curb your hasty tongue.
This rare moment of the colors blending,
We shall not waste it in a dull harangue
On matters which transcend your understanding.
(quietly, to himself)
If plucked one be - then by a gracefelt hand.
If not one sainted - then the one bedamned.
You too, my child, will find there are no saints.
Whose very name is luminous in nature
Content yourself with this beshadowed blight,
This twilight realm where colors lose their stature?
It's in the nature of the solar sphere
To render blind to lesser hues of splendour.
If it's illumination you revere
You'll find you have to choose the darker spectra.
My master, how can you, who are so kind,
Whose hands are gentle as a touch of snow,
Commit these acts of cruelty refined
Dispense so calmly torture, pain and woe?
Unruly child, as years wash away
The good and evil melt and lose distinction.
One has to gird the heart with fierce restraint
And force a shape upon their lucid tincture.
My master, how can you, who are so proud,
Whose every gesture speaks of domination,
Accede to daily bend your knee and bow
Before that horror, that abomination?
The moonrise, child. Do curb your hasty tongue.
This rare moment of the colors blending,
We shall not waste it in a dull harangue
On matters which transcend your understanding.
(quietly, to himself)
If plucked one be - then by a gracefelt hand.
If not one sainted - then the one bedamned.
You too, my child, will find there are no saints.
no subject
PS а выпады про бедные рифмы меня и не задевают: стихи не пишу, не дано