Spring of Life, Op. 10

In the midst of that swirling black madness,
escaping from the hidden crevices on the bottom
of the cauldron of Hell, ashes and dust the colour
of thunderclouds mix with the pallid waters.
Poison and corruption itself seem to seep
through this abyssal rift; the heat is immense,
no creation of light could stand - and none do -
only the works of alternate night and day
persist and proliferate. Encircling this black
sun, a hollow tower, like a chimney, spirals
upwards alongside a plume of smoke; here,
the flora of night inhabit their natural estates.

A garden of bizarre colours, a multitude
of eccentries, this writhing mass horrors is
thickest - most myriad - besides the tower.
Moving outwards, the wisps of life grow sparse -
and greater! The societies of inner circle pale
before the nameless monstrosities of outer waters,
until, like everywhere, the greatest beasts grow lonely...
And where the memory of the heat grows weak,
no sign of life is to be seen: this fount of life
only a faint whisper.

Blue Sonnet, Op. 8

That those endless hardships so would reward,
That some meaning from that black taste I would discern,
I could not expect, nor my state vile regard,
With much anguished notion; nor in vain recompense yearn,
If from my sepulchre one final glance I could purloin,
And till that ideal sight my wounded visage turn,
No regrets would then hinder my scarred way,
Nor temptation now lead my path astray,
Thus thinking I arised from my newly-found grave,
And sought that spring-like sight to enslave,
Till my eyes met those of that fair divine
And oh! how she beheld me keenly, creation of sublime!

Interlude

Shall I now compare,
a poet to carnivore,
and point out, o' thieves
that it's a flaw in wolves,
to feel and care for,
what one has devour'd

So heed my humble call,
and the name of that mister,
whom thou imbecile consider,
in this free slot install.

Tomorrow some serious poetry!

Córdoba, Op. 6

That the flame of west be vanquished,
the light of al-andalus be forever faded,
its thousand palaces abased. The seat
of caliphate lost, its legacy shattered,
splintered into parts less than the whole;
all this done, in a flickering moment of time,
as if an insult to its glory so long cultivated.
So prophesied him, once peerless, now struck
low by age and dolour, atop a tower far above
his city of one hundred libraries. In his eyes,
his enemies are dehumanised into an army of darkness;
he sees them trample his descent, felling his faithful
with swords unmasked, defaceiting upon his civilization;
a destiny he cannot avoid.
Such a fate is offered for his deathbed, such a
view dominates the skies, and no wonder he prefers the
view below as his life flickers; his city
of countless splendors.

When envoys from that distant land... Op. 5

"When envoys from that distant land presented
Zhuangzi with the following question: 'How are men
elevated, how sages became sages, heroes became
heroes,' was his retort both swift and final:
'What is the difference between a tiger and an
audacious cat?' And such a puzzling response
it was, that no answer was to be found, and
those mighty visitors agreed to return in sixty
days to hear the answer.
Yet it is told, that at that moment, a discipline
of that sage of old, gripped by a spirit of
impatience cried out, pleading for answer,
and an explanation was thus formulated:
'Tis a difference between day and night,
on dusk and dawn.'"

Sleep and his half-brother Death, Op. 4

I.
Sleeping side to side, Hypnos and Thanatos, in
the palaces of midnight.
The curtains of their bed the colour of pain,
the linens they lie upon the finest silk, and the
light that illuminates them, not the light of moon,
but that of morning sun. No mortal ever gazed on a
palace finer than this, nor furniture more beautifully
wrought, yet all of it... meaningless before the sons
of Nyx. His face is a sight before which nothing compares,
his appearence, dearest of all gifts; the vest of Thanatos
is adorned with images of butterflies; that of his
brother with shapeless spectres.
The curtains of blood open, Thanatos has awoken.

II.
From outside ever-lasting night's dominion, through her
open windows, the least of winds blow, carressing his long mane;
he stands before the curtains of love. His brother
still sleeps, writhing and wrangling on his bed of feathers,
meditating between his lackeys, walking in the fields
of could be. "Who is it, whose touch is sweeter than
sweetest bliss, more bitter than bitter'st of cures,
fleeter than fleetest kiss, yet alluring'st of alluring lures?"
The wind whispers, and he answers. "Who is it, whose
fiefdom encompasses all, in whose presence Few stand tall,
in whose halls all bow, who always reaps, never to sow?"
And before the curtains of lust, Hypnos has awoken.

III.
Behind where his brother stands, he now sits, on the
bed that is now his throne; where his brother looms,
he lazes, replacing Thanatos' stark austerity with a
dream of a festive. And before the red curtains, for
the daylight he declares: "Yet who is it, who ever
is present, who knows the dreams of all beings, yet whose
dreams none know? Who stands before these curtains of passion,
being both beginning and end of it?" The sons of Nyx were
they, and hear me, the least of travellers, He was sleep
and his half-brother was Death.

Sanctuary within the Citadel, Op. 3

Behold! Behind yon barred doors, within the
Citadel, the arbor to which no gates enter!
From its windows no Adonaïs perches; none to
watch its evocations prosper and in due time
wither, tended by the hand of unseen gardener!
Once shaped by man's view, wrought into being
by his hand, now all glory is gone yet prospers!
Her orchards now slain by Rosebane and Heartvine,
today their thousand blossoms will bloom! Embrace
and caress will they the statues of your lovers'
and kings', their crowns lost by the legions of
spring! In serenity her marble busts watch over
naught but illusions; its pavement weighted down
by naught but dreams and time!
Behold! Where once was played, with harps of
delight, the music of man, now only nightingales
persist and sing!