Post by nawal on Mar 17, 2017 11:36:43 GMT -5
Hi. this is an attempt of translation of a poem that I wrote in Spanish, there are still some errors and I couldn't fix the rhyme problem, my English isn't good enough yet, but I hope the idea is understandable. I posted it in the other forum some months ago and now share it here to see if we can bring back to life this space,
__________________________________________________________________________________
The fetidest vapor, the trace of a life form
invites them a bite: some threadbare entrains
of a rotten being.
The sky, who's the witness, cut sharp like a knife,
those wings, so rapacious, and arrive voracious
to the vile meeting.
Flesh, who in his life was like all these birds:
He enjoyed his meals and efemeral trhills,
now also dead.
Love, suffering, luck and heartfelt experiences
flourished in him, and he even seemed
everlasting shine
Now they delve him hungry, torning and trepaning.
There are some remains, old ferments expelling
a very dense gas.
In uncertain wastelands fallen as prisoner
the soul of the dead, wandering the sphere
of his intense stench
He has what he wanted, but time went by fastly;
He took it with him here, clinging to a happy
memory, What sad
What else more than that, worth to be lived ?,
What soul doesn't rot or transforms into chains
it's collosal ego?
Spectrum who torments and dreams that persists
fuller in its essence, but something so sad
is really occurring:
His body is the vultures, whom observe vigilant.
Why he isn't extinct and in that fatal wilderness
still exists?
His conviction printed among which is sterile
his thought forms in vain. He was a weak warrior
and now found his hell.
Null useless objectives became a priority
while other inside us, sees more necessary
to love, which is death.
True real and Divine Love, return to the All.
It starts to become, causing an impressive
pain in the inside.
Clinging to his old life, What useless is now!
for that they forgot and don't even bury
or evoke a prayer.
Among the deep hills, a rising dense stench
demarcates the ruin where he still declining
fell fighting as man.
Naive childish hopes of a little fool heart
who never get tired of keeping alive
its immense error.
What a vicious wastage of the Holy Energy
Today it's already in the craw of some harpies
good digesting.
What about his arts, and those noble impulses?
Do not fly apart and release of the stench
their lighter essence?
They go to the ether, are no longer own,
but the dead feel comfort in the little of well
that some day he done
In his cloud made of dreams, in the surrounding fog,
He has raised his brow imploring for an urgent
ending of that lunch
There are no warm arms here to give some sincere help
to the dead on his way to some limbo or hell
Less severe than this.
No candles are burning, nobody pray to saints,
nobody remembers as much as in disgust
when they smell the wind.
Because of the power, stagnation and time
came at last his death, was followed by the end
since he was a fetus
The Gluttony of God today delights his Maw
with the selection of thoughts of the ended man,
and with his feelings.
Hate, love, desire, well, ugly and bad,
judge, trial, old memories and the fear
to die; only that.
Nothing else exists within the poor souls,
once onrushing our auras the implacable gun
of our death fate.
________________________________________________________________________________ (Part 2)
_____________________________________________________________
By the edge of the sunset, when the mundane gets lost
in the advancing shadow, where we miss the last threads
with this reality
the redeeming lightning surrounded the place
fulfilling its sentence, since being found clean
his remaining bones
An ominous change his fate is now brewing,
Some power manifest to the astral of death
his recurring dream:
about walking back home,
Just manages to find himself in the mass
of dream envelope.
He wanders through dark places and observes
how details mutate in the total absence
of his focused gaze.
He can't find the path, but from another dream
The image came to him, he dreamed in his childhood
with all this place:
Eternally in darkness, dust, cobwebs,
waste cities and fears tarnishing the deep
into his consciousness.
Those macabre events, being witness of deaths,
it becomes so thick, no one can wake him up,
no longer possible.
A nice flower garden, a fountain and grass
provide the final breath, just entering by
some stacks of niches.
The large awful building which borders that plane,
promises a glimmer of glowing brightness
behind it's structure.
Millions of heavy eyes left energy attached
in the dusty things and vain objects around,
stored forever there
In unclean ugly sites are piled up and dumped
worlds over more worlds. Life invested and time,
in being owners of things.
Up the stairs you ascend and descend running,
there are lurking chimeras, also nightmares and goblins,
and other terrors.
At those levels, so low, of an infinite width,
move one foot is getting lost in a random game,
a very cruel maze.
Among the corridors, within the oppressive haze
some peculiar shine calls him from a stacked
pile of dumped dirt.
They are his belongings!, clothes, furniture,
Photos of experiences !. Weak will, they were hoaxes
now he goes back down.
Weak distraction, sanked him into another hole,
Fool, had no notion , and the echo mocks
of every failure
He has come home, he is back again,
but something is wrong : feels powerless, dadgummed
and nonexistent.
If someone could help, providing some energy
so he can achieve to complete one day
his unfinished work!
"Your world is not true, and if you discard it
You're not dead anymore, "said at his right a voice,
trying to help him.
"Return to the hallway, face your horror and fear,
your grief is the brightness of a past now absurd
and imaginary "
... His eyes, blurred open at last, in his warm and soft bed
What horrible was this dream, what good, what a relief,
I am alive!, I live!
We live !, celebrate some prostrated there.
We are dirty cracks of the broken floor
of a cemetery!
Long live !, celebrate two spots on the ceiling,
and there on the high now fly satisfied
the lucky vultures.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The fetidest vapor, the trace of a life form
invites them a bite: some threadbare entrains
of a rotten being.
The sky, who's the witness, cut sharp like a knife,
those wings, so rapacious, and arrive voracious
to the vile meeting.
Flesh, who in his life was like all these birds:
He enjoyed his meals and efemeral trhills,
now also dead.
Love, suffering, luck and heartfelt experiences
flourished in him, and he even seemed
everlasting shine
Now they delve him hungry, torning and trepaning.
There are some remains, old ferments expelling
a very dense gas.
In uncertain wastelands fallen as prisoner
the soul of the dead, wandering the sphere
of his intense stench
He has what he wanted, but time went by fastly;
He took it with him here, clinging to a happy
memory, What sad
What else more than that, worth to be lived ?,
What soul doesn't rot or transforms into chains
it's collosal ego?
Spectrum who torments and dreams that persists
fuller in its essence, but something so sad
is really occurring:
His body is the vultures, whom observe vigilant.
Why he isn't extinct and in that fatal wilderness
still exists?
His conviction printed among which is sterile
his thought forms in vain. He was a weak warrior
and now found his hell.
Null useless objectives became a priority
while other inside us, sees more necessary
to love, which is death.
True real and Divine Love, return to the All.
It starts to become, causing an impressive
pain in the inside.
Clinging to his old life, What useless is now!
for that they forgot and don't even bury
or evoke a prayer.
Among the deep hills, a rising dense stench
demarcates the ruin where he still declining
fell fighting as man.
Naive childish hopes of a little fool heart
who never get tired of keeping alive
its immense error.
What a vicious wastage of the Holy Energy
Today it's already in the craw of some harpies
good digesting.
What about his arts, and those noble impulses?
Do not fly apart and release of the stench
their lighter essence?
They go to the ether, are no longer own,
but the dead feel comfort in the little of well
that some day he done
In his cloud made of dreams, in the surrounding fog,
He has raised his brow imploring for an urgent
ending of that lunch
There are no warm arms here to give some sincere help
to the dead on his way to some limbo or hell
Less severe than this.
No candles are burning, nobody pray to saints,
nobody remembers as much as in disgust
when they smell the wind.
Because of the power, stagnation and time
came at last his death, was followed by the end
since he was a fetus
The Gluttony of God today delights his Maw
with the selection of thoughts of the ended man,
and with his feelings.
Hate, love, desire, well, ugly and bad,
judge, trial, old memories and the fear
to die; only that.
Nothing else exists within the poor souls,
once onrushing our auras the implacable gun
of our death fate.
________________________________________________________________________________ (Part 2)
_____________________________________________________________
By the edge of the sunset, when the mundane gets lost
in the advancing shadow, where we miss the last threads
with this reality
the redeeming lightning surrounded the place
fulfilling its sentence, since being found clean
his remaining bones
An ominous change his fate is now brewing,
Some power manifest to the astral of death
his recurring dream:
about walking back home,
Just manages to find himself in the mass
of dream envelope.
He wanders through dark places and observes
how details mutate in the total absence
of his focused gaze.
He can't find the path, but from another dream
The image came to him, he dreamed in his childhood
with all this place:
Eternally in darkness, dust, cobwebs,
waste cities and fears tarnishing the deep
into his consciousness.
Those macabre events, being witness of deaths,
it becomes so thick, no one can wake him up,
no longer possible.
A nice flower garden, a fountain and grass
provide the final breath, just entering by
some stacks of niches.
The large awful building which borders that plane,
promises a glimmer of glowing brightness
behind it's structure.
Millions of heavy eyes left energy attached
in the dusty things and vain objects around,
stored forever there
In unclean ugly sites are piled up and dumped
worlds over more worlds. Life invested and time,
in being owners of things.
Up the stairs you ascend and descend running,
there are lurking chimeras, also nightmares and goblins,
and other terrors.
At those levels, so low, of an infinite width,
move one foot is getting lost in a random game,
a very cruel maze.
Among the corridors, within the oppressive haze
some peculiar shine calls him from a stacked
pile of dumped dirt.
They are his belongings!, clothes, furniture,
Photos of experiences !. Weak will, they were hoaxes
now he goes back down.
Weak distraction, sanked him into another hole,
Fool, had no notion , and the echo mocks
of every failure
He has come home, he is back again,
but something is wrong : feels powerless, dadgummed
and nonexistent.
If someone could help, providing some energy
so he can achieve to complete one day
his unfinished work!
"Your world is not true, and if you discard it
You're not dead anymore, "said at his right a voice,
trying to help him.
"Return to the hallway, face your horror and fear,
your grief is the brightness of a past now absurd
and imaginary "
... His eyes, blurred open at last, in his warm and soft bed
What horrible was this dream, what good, what a relief,
I am alive!, I live!
We live !, celebrate some prostrated there.
We are dirty cracks of the broken floor
of a cemetery!
Long live !, celebrate two spots on the ceiling,
and there on the high now fly satisfied
the lucky vultures.