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On the day it knows
when in fever it remains
the Donna she will rise
And carelessly lift her eyes
seeing is a curse
the blessing of the sight
known only of a few
Helios will be the name of tongues
semper mea brevis

Do ut res

On my way I go, where the children play.
On I go, hear the children play.
And I'm going home from a place so warm.
To the northern fields where the winter roam.

Goodbye , to all you Romans. I am going home.
Home to where the Norfolk play a barbarian tune.
Where the nordmanns roam the snow, and valkeries our forests.
There's trolls in these mountains...
Here the wind it blows, and the light is gone.
We roam...

Fair haired, fair skinned, but in our eyes a ferocity is felt.
Cause be them green, blue or ice, brown, dark or light.
In our eyes a nation lives
whom knows not but the bliss of blizzards, hide to cold and night to day.
The wind far up there in the north, and the mountain winds it speaks.

december light

The first of December.
The month a student want to pass quickly.
And a child wishes never ends.

The Norse wish for high and strong Hjul snow.
While the Irish mope for calm seas.

Lights are alight to day.
Shed a light in the darkness, and someone might see.
people stress and worry, yet now is the time they do say please and sorry.

As I spoke

Like a flame - life flickers.
It brings what it desires.
It gives what it sees.
It licks the very fabric of space for its needs.

Proposito umquam iterum amoritur?

Timed!

They fought a lot.
Driven by hatred, and the unkind bitterness.
Though deep down I know, they loved one an other,
once.
But life brought her ignorance into fear,
and his brilliance into despair.
And they drifted.
I know, now I know.

plunder

Can you love when love has fled?

Can we be when trust has left?

Can you see when you are older

with the light of your youth?

Are the goggles we are wearing

the shades before the sun?

Can we now and for the future, understand our solom truth?

Will we be the ones we are of clay or do we grow into a pelt?

I don't know, I just grow

22.07.11

They say the foulest crime there is, is to ignore a cry of desperation from mothers and to disrespect a nation's gathered sorrow. To this my friends my words travel. Remember who we are together in sorrow and delight. Hold your loved ones closer and give the nation an other voice in it's chorous of voices. We are but one people, together we are strong, together we are one, together we may withstand the time of time. But a part, however, we are many frail individuals.

Friendship is a sheltering tree

In an empty room, but for a lone girl sitting cross legged on the floor, sweeps an eerie silence. Her eyes are wide awake with the chill shining of cool blue, and in the neck slopes a loosley knotted bundle of fair hair. Her hands are resting on the table top in front of her. There lies her deck of nature's guidance. In silence guidance the Hornbeam and White Willow showes them selves turned to face down. In answer to her plea of regret and redemption does Hornbeam answer:

Most holy sanctum

Innermost kernel

For which you are ready to die

For which you are not quite ready to live

Protect the flame

You are made of secrecy

Master's silent servant

She sees the answer in bewildered relief. Its message clear in her heart. She was right to hold her ground, no matter how tempting it would have been to let her mercy turn the blind eye. The White Willow confirms that her well being depended on this refusal of kindness.

Don't think, don't ask, just dance

Move through life

Like a drop of water

Falling, flowing, rising, drifting

Constrict your boundaries

Fly, plunge, run, stop!

Always mirror your inner light

The second referring to her own sanity, puzzles her even as much as her regret. To withdraw from a kinship, even by just cause seems an invitation of pain and darkness, Yet here lies the relief she seeks. Out of mind, out of sight - delivered sanctum.

there, dear

A mothers kiss upon a youngling's nearly hairless head - soothes me.
The lips touching only superficially the head beneath - caressing it.
Uttering the voice of property - you are mine, dear.
The youngling utters a smirk smile and shudders it head away - careless.

What are the worries of mothers? Why do they keep holding on to those small and probably unnecessary fears? Who said a mother would care for her child? Why is a bundle that has caused a lot of pain upon birthing - create so much joy in a mothers eyes? Who decided that a mother were to love her child and embrace him upon evening? Did the gods cradle sivilasation upon it's upbringing? Did the almighty among themselves, hold any of us dear - or were we a game of ponds? Does the cradle of civilisation behold a mother embracing her child fondly before allowing it out into the mindless world beyond her sphere?

a fortnight of summer

See the lights over here? It be the lights of some hopeful sluggers. I do believe they're awaiting some splendiour. Never heard of a splendor occurring in the gray scheme of everyday life? Why they're lonesomely awaiting some untruths? Well in tune, it is but a hope that might be rejoiced in some manner of extravagance. Not unlike a sailor's wife awaits news of her husband's landing, the people over there, by the lights, have long awaited news from beneath the sea as well. The story they hope to hear is foretold, retold and announced, many years hence. From a far away place they strive to hear what the winds bare of valuable news. If time stood still and they had but one wish, they might just wish to know - nothing more grandeur than that, but the simple and easy longitude of knowledge - that is their grand perception of such grandeur insight.

A white and airy sky arises soon upon the dawning sun.

From dusk of night till dawning light, a puppet stir its limbs.

Neither knowing, nor expecting to be any differently perceived.

All but two surrounds the endless sea of imaginary images of dreams.

What will hence become of such bewilderment in anxious strings?

Who but our little puppet strings a bleeding yearn of ill?

Every night a moonlight shadow appear unapproached.

He who sees and listens, but not for own sake sleep.

Gaia meets crookedly with him once upon a year.