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Записки недопросветленного [поэзия]

Лайтбрингер Тимонг

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Фантастика и фэнтези

Детективы и триллеры

Проза

Любовные романы

Приключения

Детские

Поэзия и драматургия

Старинная литература

Научно-образовательная

Компьютеры и интернет

Справочная литература

Документальная литература

Религия и духовность

Юмор

Дом и семья

Деловая литература

Жанр не определен

Разное

Техника

Автомобили и ПДД

Прочее

Драматургия

Фольклор

Военное дело

Последние комментарии

оксана2018-11-27

Вообще, я больше люблю новинки литератур

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Professor2018-11-27

Очень понравилась книга. Рекомендую!

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Vera.Li2016-02-21

Миленько и простенько, без всяких интриг

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ст.ст.2018-05-15

И что это было?

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Наталья222018-11-27

Сюжет захватывающий. Все-таки читать кни

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Записки недопросветленного [поэзия] - Лайтбрингер Тимонг - Страница 6

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Успех

What does one strife for, if not success ?

Constantly pressured, each day in stress ?

What do I care ? Listen or not -

Poem's successful, still being hot.

For politician it's measured in voices,

And for musician it's all in the noises.

For the reporter - it's in sensations,

And for astronomer - in observations.

As for the priest - it's measured in souls,

And for each medic it's counted in bowels.

For common mystic it's in divinations.

What of the killer ? In annihilations.

For simple writer it's in the novels,

For complex digger it's in the shovels.

For undertaker this one's in corpse,

For the oculist this one's in orbs.

It's in new places for endless strollers

And for all merchants all in the dollars.

And for the army it's in the wars ...

Now do you see where successful one goes ?

And for the planet it's in the us.

Want be successful ? See where this goes ?

Or will prefer not to race for success,

Driving as madman, always in stress ?

Spirit success now is being so rare ...

Poem's successful ... what do I care ?

Мечта

We all are given rare gift -

The time will pass, the planes will shift,

But for as long as we have dreams

To live through time we have the means.

The dream may free, the dream may kill,

The dream may heal and make one ill,

The dream may bless, the dream may curse,

It's paradise - and the abyss.

The dream is not the thing to share,

And pure dreams are truly rare,

So many dim, yet some as flare …

But one will never lay them bare.

The dream is like the guiding light,

Yet its existence makes a plight,

And when one dreams of other's love

His own feelings bent to muff.

The dream is powerful somehow ...

I, too, once dreamed of pure love,

But when it turned to be a bluffer -

The time has come for one to suffer.

There is no time for second thought,

That dream is doomed to die and rot,

Through withered lands I'm passing by ...

The dream is foe, not ally.

For when one hide in endless dreams

Theirs bitter nature feed his sins -

When their poison flow through vein

One only strengthen own pain.

But once the pain is forsaken,

And pieces of shattered dream are taken,

I will create new one and sate ...

Is that is how the dream degrade ?

Those ones who cannot dream of sky

Will never have the will to fly,

And they are bent to comfort's sins

For they know not such things as dreams.

I will still keep my dream of other,

If not for me - than for another.

Сердце

When one is set in own path

He will escape all crowd's mass,

And will be ready for the fight

With own demons of the blight.

He will prevail after all,

But pay a costly, dire toll,

That toll will be his former life ...

He shall destroy it in the strife.

The flame of heart may break one's night,

The flame of heart destroys the blight,

The flame of heart is endless fire,

The flame of heart is your desire.

My word is blade and song is shield,

And I'm still fighting on the field

In some eternal, endless war ...

That fight is fierce - but what for ?

I cannot flee, I cannot run,

My armor glistens under sun,

And blood now feeds the earth below ...

I am, like others, one in row.

My throat is dry, my thoughts all spin,

And hope to end the fight is thin,

It won't extinguish by itself -

For I am fighting with myself.

My mind is helmet for the head,

My heart is armor in the red,

And as the drops of blood now burn

That heart is ready for its turn.

My heart is afire, engulfed in flame,

My heart is afire - and yet just the same,

My heart is afire wherever I go,

My heart is afire - and let it be so.

Клятва

I was dreaming for this night,

I was walking in the light,

I was healed in my hope,

Given strength to fight and cope.

I was told then of my way -

But of that I dare not say,

I was told of choice and thus

I have given my oath.

To keep spirit and behold

Ways of life I was then told,

To find kindness in the world

And to help it to uphold.

My oath was small in size,

Hard in deed and never wise :

Hold the faith in the new race,

Move aside from outer pace,

Find the wisdom in the pain,

Drop the thoughts of selfish gain,

Search for light in endless dark,

Keep the silence when all bark,

Keep the faith when all is lost,

Being modest like a ghost,

Being endless like the life,

Sharp in tongue just like Swiss knife,

Warm in heart just like the sun,

Young as child having fun,

Wise as hundred years man …

That was part of oath then.

Live to fight my own sins,

Through repentance finding means,

Not for glory, not for gain -

But to end some other's pain,

But to bring the light of hope

And give strength to fight and cope.

I can stop, I can say "nay",

I can move away from way,

But as long as I keep faith

I will never fall from grace.

I have given it - and thus

I must now fulfill oath.

If I will - I cannot see …

All in all, it's up to me.