(Emprestada Aqui)

Free me from these fetters,
find the key to tackle
blasted belts and buckles-
Shadow master’s shackled.

Stop the blood still fleeing
from festered wounds’ fire;
burn of bite-mark’s crying,
in rite of spurned sire.

Seed is sown in vessels,
vied in vain on betters;
let go of life’s matters-
thrive and throw off fetters.

(©Leny Roovers 26-9-2004)

2 comentários:

Catsone disse...

Epá, isto estava com umas teias de aranha, amigo ;)

Abraço e bom 2011!

Mateso disse...

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather in the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
By Tennyson

Bom Ano