Aaron's Brave Heart

"Maeglin"



Fair radiance and curly tresses,
lips as juicy as exotic peach,
Maeglin's heart silently caresses
a desire that would turn to siege....

Pure infatuation it is called;
but what a cursed fate indeed,
lineage is said to forestall
inbreeding despite Love's needs...

"Would you ever be capable?"
Somber insight leaks in...
To create a family, a cradle...
there's darkness in between.

No, what resentful disdaign
would turn this frustration in vengeance
and dominating stimulus vain
to possess her for himself's dependance...

Who knows what truly did Idril
think of her Cousin's intentions
but it is said, she on purpose, at will,
avoided his malevolent tension...

But it is as true as an Elven Heart,
even if a Dark One you are,
True was His Admiration from the Start,
but Fate was in the way, bizarre.

To observe from aside, dimmed,
damp Soul tears are soil for Malice,
it was not merely a Whim;
But Rather, Real Love as a Chalice.

Eol's heritage is hard enough, anyways;
yet alone to compete with a human...
Maeglin shall care for her each and every day...
until Existance's over and beyond its blooming...

Silent at his father's death sentence.
Who knows what He truly felt;
it was rather an understanding presence,
for he has always dealt

with Eol's possessive manners
until he developed them himself
but proud are Elven Banners...
"To Hell with Tuor from an Elf!"

Oh, this dreaded mortal,
exuding such beautiful air,
how did he cross this portal
"to take my dearest he dared!"

I disappeared for a while
in Morgoth's dens unheard of
and I returned with a strange smile
and appeance changed, unsoft.

This strange sparkle in the eyes
and wicked bloodline so enchanted
To her I dedicate my skies,
who knows what's been granted

in the lands hidden from the Light
to accentuate this dreaded feelings,
this horrible envied greedy sight
of Tuor and Idril's wedding rings...

I would kill absolutely anyone
even Earendil, Idril's merriest boy,
the son of Tuor shall be done,
they stood in my Way, and it annoys..

But what does Maeglin see as he falls,
His Life scenes run before his eyes,
struck down Gondolin's walls
Idril in All His Love... Forever he cries ~

He cries, the purest of tears,
this was incestious - but accidentally!
His Spirit - Elven, Fierce;
The Fire consumed him mentally...

This is the surveiling story
of a yearning unfulfilled...

And I am sorry... I'm so sorry.

"Idril, it's just the Way you Thrill!"

"One Ring to Rule them All"



Surely, it was the Evil Core
that the Lord of Gifts so furtive
embedded in the ring - the door
to the AntiMetatronic dirt of

Everything that is unholy;
for He knew that it's the power
chimeric of the offerings of nucleoli
that can confuse a being, showered

not by the Promised Abundance
but with Reeking Excrement Acid
immaculate plan, for all the bundles
of inversion gather essences, for ashes

infernal of the vampirism
for Sauron did utter damned
that he despised Varda's animism
he spitted on her Light; Be banned!

Yes, God's Light is Absolute;
But I suffered demonic possession
My martyrdom and insights fruit
Chrystic power of Purity's protection...

Oh, I sing Tinnitus
for I somewhat awe it as well
I make all your sigils ubiquitous
manifest them through this well

of resentment of the succubus
sucking all to feed with blood
disguised as jewels or stimulus
... but this Truth is brute.

I activated the inverted Flower
of Life as to let out the diabolic
so it could be afterwards showered
by the Elven essence that you vitriolic

locked as the Alphabet Refined
of the Elven Immortality of Souls
for you all that eats away entwined
in its Beauty to emit ugly ghouls...

We all know what you wanted,
Annatar, you Serpentongue,
you managed it, as you enchanted
abundance adamantine and unsung

its divine alchemic powers...
then to unleash the portal to Hell...
I know, you intended the Hour
of holes to destroy Life itself...

But, Sauron, oh Sauron,
I love how your music sounds,
so I will sing all your tones
mirroring your face, your bounds.

May Fifth Dawn Brigthen Your Mouth
this Evil Creature Symbolic
that I saw in Mordor's South
the key to rotten teeth of Moloch

then a Holy Symbol irrevocable
shall seal forever the Ring's hole
after it's been emptied of all vocals
that Sauron crafted in the One whole.

On the very same stone it was crafted,
that's where it can be undone, reversed...
not destroyed, for this is how the flower shafted
can activate its opposite of sucking curse...

There I transmutated your magic,
after living your very intention,
turning it to Chrystic codes pelagic
and then I seal it for prevention.

What shall I do next?
I shall Free Celebrimbor's possessive "I"
as a Feanorian hexed
but nonetheless an Elve of Virtues and of Holy Eyes.

Let his true Elven essence inundate
the Precious Ring to Rule them All
Shape itself in the inscription and create
defense of pure Regained Elven Walls

This is how the claimed script
so Holy of the Elven kin
shall become an army that encrypts
the Eternal Protection Within!

"One Ring to rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all
and in the darkness bind them.

One Ring to Burn intestines,
One Ring to incite,
One Ring to be Destined
the evil darkness to delight.

One Ring is Gathered
One Ring is Transposed
The One Ring has Fathered
the Cure for All the Necrosed.

The One Ring is fair,
The One Ring is of Snow...
One Ring... You shall forevermore Bear...
the One's Perfection Unknown!"

"Много любовници, малко любов"



Сенките гаснеят тленно,
пясък, падащ във часовник,
гледат кървави следи надменно
и ме плашат със намордник.

Два царя се оголиха
пред силуетите си стари,
жените траурно се молиха,
пак да бъдат Богу цяли.

Вял господин, прегърбен и блед,
немееше над пустотата,
слънчев циферблат, със къче лед,
пречиства тихо си душата...

Кай и Герда от каляска
гледат учудено и дивно
този къс замръзнал бляска,
без да те убива инстинктивно...

Истината е, че във снега
и смърт, и живот има,
въпросът е, художника в брега
кораб ли вижда, отпътуващ, или възбудима

наслада на семейство, което,
решило да отпусне морни пети,
в пясъка извайва кули им детето,
и пяната, отмиваща ги, весело блести....

Симфонията от цигулки
Виенски композитор търси,
че вкусът на младите булки
някак сменя се, да се отърси

от старото, което
някак грозно се мени
в екстериорите, отнети
от романтиката; две пети.

Нокти със лак
са символ на поддръжка,
на волята, че пак
повторяемост се тръшка,

а аз вече не искам
и не моля

да притискам
да преборя,

че остана ми умората,
стар приятел

на пръстта,

а отзад невидима неволята
размахва ми -

коса.

Ще се гледаме взаимно
без да търсим знак
нежно
мило
инстинктивно

че утре ще е пак
времето, в което,
някой ще престане,
любов да дава,
взета,
ВИНАГИ назаем.

О, ... така ли ще да бъде.
На Плеядите не е така.
Любов безусловна не сбъдна
се на тази пуста Земя.

И ще има часовници
с пясък да обръщам,
докато тези любовници
празно без глас ще прегръщам....

И когато броят им нарасне,
в пусти бяг към трепетта,
всичко жално поугасва,
в мен като в пещта.

Когато само тлееш,
без някой да те зареди,
как ще съумееш
да градиш мечти...?

Аз не искам пустотата,
свещ в задгобна плоча,
а самотата... самотата...
като отвара, вещерски,
клокочи.

Дали се смеем най-цинично,
когато не се отразяваме,
но истината е митична.

И я има.

Ще познаваме.

Вече не умея да насочвам
поглед в преходни неща...
нито да нарсочвам
план в преходността...

вместо туй,

ще взема -
очите, задимени...

и ще се превърна в диадема...
ала не от кралските, надменни...

тиарата на горска фея,
която прашеца от цветя разпръсква,
и със вяра ще се смея...

вместо злото да насъсквам..

ВЯРА.

ВЯРА ТРЯБВА.

Това е - също, чистота.

Помислите да са хляб, два

рубина -

и сълза.

Виждам Христос и разбирам...
Той не вярва в църкви отежнели...
И сълзата си прибирам
по бузите поруменели...

а очите ще засвяткат
3 пулсара неутронни...

И ще бъдат онзи бряг...
на художника - удобни...

Задето очите са море
моля, нарисувай ги,
ти любовник ли се взе...
художник, публикуващ, ти...

даже на естета
тясна му душата
пак вяло обзета
от самосуетата

и тогава...
ще угасне...
стара орисия..

гледам да порасна...

вместо пак да пия...
ии да пия...
да пияя..

ненаситно ФАНТАЗЬОРСКИ

Не на мене тия.

Тук съм - и съм морска!

"The Era of Eagles"



The path appears before him dark,
he feels a presence of fire,
holily strong as orange-flame sparks,
and suddenly, what a desire.

He was a riddled ember
of what he could have been
but somewhat faded, lack of remembrance,
and no intentions were there seen.

He entered the cave,
as brave and curious as fire in glory,
and in him a melody wave
unbiased followed him around the gory

visions of phantoms that fathom
whichever unfathomable for him is,
maciated by his destiny, his atom
had joined the sound of twists.

But there he got troubled
by possession of such dread,
amid insanity so shadowed
he saw a Beast so Red.

He was there, burning dormant,
the wanderer got impatient within,
as he wanted to hide in his enforcement
or in his horned face, as he has seen

that this beast salvating
carried a sealing rock
instead of snout, pulsating,
he found himself in shock.

He was the Beast, oh Willows,
and Poplars of forgetfullness,
what has he done, is it the sigils,
or just bestiality as primordial chaos?

He erupted as explosion,
the way that Spirits of Fire expand,
Legolas and Gimli were just proposing
to Frodo where exactly he should land,

nearby the sea, a Farewell,
but the shadow in Frodo did live,
and the recollected Balrog burst well
with his Maia forlorn newborn gift....

Then the Fellowship were virtually insights,
as their Third Eye so clearly foresaw
how Mairon would there calmly lie
with his head bended down, the hair .. just wow.

Oh, how fast they ran,
not meeting a single enemy,
beneath an ample sky, not once
felt there as a scenery...

Barely did they sleep,
captured, God, so light,
eyes no longer weeped
of mourns and sad goodbyes..

Finally, in years,
of silence, exhaltation,
their curious ears
heard the song foundation,

when they finally crossed
the remainders of Minas Ithil
in Mordor that was lost,
the statue's flowers on a spring hill.

They saw him there,
Mairon, the fairest,
leaning and his hair
rested was, aorist...

Sauron remembered her, the Maia,
Arien that's uncorrupted
by Melkor, who tried to catch her fire,
but she was untouchable and unobstructed.

Houseless his spirit roams,
while diminished in the power,
he restores himself, aums,
gathers emanations-showers.

What should they do next...?
Doesn't Sauron ever want
to be part of the gang, perplexed...
well, Smoking Pipe-Weed shan't

bother his mission of evil plans...
but, oh wait, I like it a lot...
what's this clueless damned chance..
but wait... what's next with Our plot?

He looks above the Sea
that links Aman to Hither Lands..
A girl is floating in the sky, she flees,
from two colliding vortexes' expanse...

As she was given a choice
whether to fall in Ulmo's depths
or straight to Morgoth's black hole's noise,
she panicked could not choose a bet...

She finally found out,
both are too scary to be felt,
Torondor at sudden appeared without
any fear, so brave, as he smelt

her appearance in Manwe's reign,
in the middle of nowhere,
the skies are also scary, when they ain't
holy presence but Uranium spheres...

She gasped, now eased and debtless,
then she looked straight in his eye,
the eagle commanded her respect, breathless
was, she came to realise...

One thing is certain there.
In the Land of the Undying Sun...
Nest three Air Spheres of Airmen, where...
"The Era of Eagles has Begun!"

"Manwe"



I was roaming in the sky,
searching for my memory,
when I saw serious eyes,
furrowed eyebrows cleverly

remided me of a phrase simple,
it's called exactly eagle vision,
that in sapients I praise, I twinkle,
for responsibilities divine and intuition...

I heard the Manwe song,
The Ainurs' Eldest One,
the Chief of Instruments belongs
to countering immaculate, the plan,

that unveils slowly but steady,
Melkor caused discord,
but someday Unity'll be ready,
compassionate at core.

You, the Ruler of Arda,
glow with Radiance so gentle,
kind as the heart of Varda,
your twin flame elemental...

You are so good at your cord,
that you initially deemed
Melkor as sick with ilness stored,
you believed him, as you dream

that his contrition is real,
foretold to manifest...
encaptivated, Melkor kneeled....
I saw God's Triunal light so blessed

to be emitted with wisdom,
the secrets of a God Creator
and yes... your holy kingdom -
is a righteous legislator.

When I look at your Icon,
I feel a desire to be purified,
my innocence does ligthen,
controlled by healing sights...

I love you, dear Manwe - I do plead.
You .. are pure and an ideal.
Please, don't ever breed
with those who try to steal

your essence ~ angel's blueprint;
like Arien, the Lady that's Pristine.

Your fragrance - healthy mint.

Yes.

Lord Manwe knows no sin...

"Manwe meets Merihkene"



Underneath a clouded sky
where no one ever lies
what does Light deny
it accepts humbly and tries

not to feel so broken
in the heart, as he was hurt
by cutting trees so smoken
as Valinor was now injured.

"Have you ever p-protected?"
he gently uttered as a bunny-
bird that was neglected;
He would expect the love so honey

to flow in his Creations;
unbreakable and ever lively
touched by damnations?
What the reason might be?

I thought... life is eternal.
But Life eternal is.
Just some pretty external
vision so swift

upon the veil of forgetting
when all cushioned is
and the Sword so Absolute is trieting
the Sound Clattered with Bliss

as it could be never broken;
Christic is the Light...
and so, it is spoken
that it shall ignite forever Bright...

There Manwe sees s silhouette
the brighterst of all Stars
among the nebulae septet
that Knew Intended Wars.

"What is the verb for the burning of the Fire?
That Imperishable is
So Mighty that all Dires
is capable to resist?"

"UTTERMOST COMBUSTION!"
Merikhene echoes
The Perfect Solution's Adjustment...
The Will of The Decad

"This flame is immortal!
This is the Absolute Sword!
And all accursed portals
cannot Undo the Word!"

"The Gethsemane Prayer"

The Last Supper is over now.
Clandestine symbols drawn;
Inner humility is the eternal vow
when accepting the faith of God's dawn.

Have you ever been mutilated?
Irresistible pain lasting for aeons;
it is then - when we desacrated
through rebellion of what weighs in...

I have also been a Judas
when I couldn't last in credence,
turning my back, proclaiming justice,
as our burdens turn to malfeasance.

Oh, the last prayer;...
when the corporal exhaust prevails...
who fell asleep right there...?
who gathered strength to wake and wail...?

The wine in the cantine
the bread so warmly freeing
purifying all mankind
that in sin was breeding

made their eyes drowsy
heavy heads feel premonition
some were awake, eyes see,
for it was a sign of the Ignition.

Oh, the martyrdom of Via Dolorosa,
the crucified way to Golgotha with the cross
all the sins transmutated to ambrosia
your dearest ones wouldn't really dare to close

their eyes, as they were full of Pietá;
when Virgin Mary held her son ~
but her mourns could truly set a
melody of salvation, for it's Won.

I couldn't eat a single thing
other than the bread and the wine sips
as I feel how your blood from within
is what they would in their Self-Hell dine with....

"I am sorry" - "I am sorry"
a tiny mouse swished on the table,
it is deeply and terribly worried,
as this dinner felt like heavy fable.

"Would I eat the cheese?"
"Indeed, it is so moist?"
Am I a Judah in each spontaneous breeze?
Some intentions are unvoiced.

Not even aware of it, those thirteen coins
shall turn into particles adamantine
and waters the dust shall join
under feet; so Let the Christ combine!

Oh, it Echoes! So eternal..
the Transmutation shall become The Flame!
While in the background, I hear the infernal
voices of Lucifer and Kaligastia scream "Hosannah!"

... No blame.

"Burzum to Me, You, Bloody Sauron!"

"Sauron?" I asked in doubt,
as it doubt has always been;
my intestines bloody shout
that there's one thing I've seen

in the Ring that you've inserted
One disgusting part of yourself
the essence of a girl that's perverted
but not In May Way, you shadowing elf.

It is everything that ruins my world
one chemical substance so girly
it just wants to smash me and hurt
my alchemy of everything - so surely.

I don't want to change you at all.
Not to purify you, or serious make your doom.
I can see behind your eyes without
sanity needed, you Orgullochchazar Kazadum.

I used to stare behind monstrosity blinding,
Maia wisdom and beyond your tongue.
Khajazgur drumblak drogoth-a ~shining
All Seeing Eye that gathered it, unsung.

But as I was wondering, in awe,
how you are always a step ahead,
I saw in the left a newly found law,
Maria's pressuring influence that spreads.

And I wonder... I wonder...
Without worrying about your ring's unreal blurs...
will our Own Love crack asunder...
Oh, Precious Sauron, shall I lose you - to her?

The Shadow In Fingon's Heart

"Fingon, why you're ill?"
I whispered, caring for his health.
Did I sense a shadow's chills,
for it silently and moistly dwelt...

I always sensed this faithful hope,
the Finwe house was prior to the Ring,
the Eternal Now ends as a suicide rope?
But Fingon's blessed, angelic wings...

No, Time leaks everywhere ~
forward and backwards as a curse ~
I don't want to see you, elve, there...
where Sauron would do the worst.

Please immediately heal.
Right before my eyes...
It may be the empirical will.
Before me... Fingon dies?

It has occurred to me, unnerved,
for the first dreaded time,
what it truly meant to them to observe
how I was possessed in the crime...

How did it feel, Azrael?
To see every single image of decay...
It is not just my mind but hell,
meant to sync with the eternal play...

"Piss on Varda's Light" he uttered,
Sauron, but now I'll cheer you up.
"Piss then on", I jiggled, suffered,
it will help us Absolutely fill the Cup

of Grails with the disgusting fire
that carried your passionate dream
so maybe next time.. your desire
to destroy her, will help her gleam.

"Piss all over and beyond"
"Maybe your Acid is needed"
"Without this piss the bond
can it be linked? It bleeded."

"I love the Ring for what it is"
"But Varda is truly fragile and tender"
"So Let it be God's will ... and your piss
can Elochimly express itself, as a blender."

I have seen your Eye...
gathering all pieces in the One
I have done the same, yet I cried
and our movements are a swirling dance.

Celebrimbor absolutely knew
what you inserted in the ring.
I have the faith in this cursed wheel
that the Key of Enoch sings.

So if I make you laugh so innocent,
using your brutality as jokes,
maybe we'll have a moment of dissonance,
where we are friends, you hoax.

You are definitely and indeed,
the most renowned blacksmith,
Do you like smoking weed?
And Is Morgoth a dark Sith?

While I keep marvelling
how you could have created
something so perfect and targeting,
I feel a presence ablated

A dark monster that hid
all his evil intentions from me,
so I could see his purity amid
the whilpool of both that he can be.

Morgoth is seeing before him
a sweet and juicy child
"Fingolfin... you hurt my limb"
"I am aware of the speech reviled."

"Close your eyes, so you can not..."
He started saying but he stopped,
she turned around, in the form of Morgoth
and his intentions mirrored, swapped.

He smiled, bit soothed.
As a carnivour of Hell
She knows perfectly what's rooted
inside of myself where I dwell.

"God's Absolute and Relative"
she answered, wondering below the veil
who she was, as this wild narrative
did not reveal her background, but they'll

surely meet her someday.
Quarantined Urantia is prior to the wormhole.
"Lesno e da borish se s zlodei"
Someday you'll meet the Eye in Real Life, doll!

She suddenly screamed,
As she got carried away.
Evil beautiful seemed
but Fingon's ill, it's not okay.

So she ran fast, as fast as she could
to find her way back to his causal body
and she would hug him and kiss him and soothe...
whathever ilness is torturing him, naughty.

All ilnesses are also living beings
she remembered a teaching of yore
so don't mean to destroy its beginnings
just create along and it will heal his sore.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Fingon"
"I want you to be beautiful and innocent..."
"And when the shadow is finally gone...
You'll sing and play your musical instrument!"

"The Eternal Ring of the One"

Clenching, flame splashes bursting,
melting lava everywhere,
Maia spirit, chaos clusters, churning
all golden and fiery glares.

What it is to be the One?
It is the Absolute (DESTROYS!)
It is Varda but GODDAMN!
Mairon is part of the DECOYS.

Can this One imitate her light?
But we shall become the Absolute,
God is not only Manwe's Ray bright
but it contains all emanations, even brute.

Therefore, until you accept it
that we are the same as the evil,
we cannot be the link, but wept, lit,
and give way to Gore Flowers' Will.

If you imagine it like that
Separate Units are wounds of slicing,
can you guess exactly what
is the power that's reviving

BECOME THE ONE
TO RULE US ALL
And nothing can Hurt GOD
AS HE'S THE CALL
That ALL RAYS Contains, The Lawed.

Do you imagine what it means
to grant every Ray's wishes?
Is it not what is initially seems,
it gives way also to squishes...

Therefore, if it is True
that Evil will Destroy,
Isn't it somewhat... Absolute
That the Dream for Life He'll Deploy

Strategically, amid the Fire of Hell
so that we can Learn
all Ideas are contained in the Well
so if we have, we'll burn...

Until we learn the final lesson
of Maytreia and Obi Wan.
The Power we have does possess in
itself the Absolute Plan.

Therefore, you have to know
how to spread your energy teams,
so that it can be all controlled,
alchemy fills all, unobstructed it streams...

God Opens his eyes.
They need not be fogged with protective swirls.
Even obstructed, the Skies
are Eternal, for even if he's hurt

he cannot be destroyed.
Life is there even when it's Death.
So Merikhene's part of the android
and here is where Varda and Sauron Wed.

"You are the Scariest of All Them Evil Ones, Annatar!"

Trumpets blare in the distance,
Sauron is smirking without heart,
cruel plans to burn that resistance
with unimmaginable darkened art.

Oh, what is it to be an Eye AllSeeing
to gather all connections there are,
but not to help them, never freeing.
Just ways to torture eternally in war.

Not even war, it is a prison,
where he'd abduct all innocent folks.
I saw it myself, it's beyond seen reasons,
he'd really unleash a portal to his brutal jokes.

Laugh now, my cutthroat Anniechlem.
I love your merciless and bloody veins.
If I declared you the most cunning of all of them?
Would you justice respect in your reigns?

I know you wisdom possess.
Justice to you is also known.
But you need to be impressed?
By intelligence unbiased shown...

What a thrilling immagination, Sass.
However, people would hurt, no shame.
I'd imagine it all, too, in my brain, alas.
For no one deserves mere sensation of pain.

This is what it's all about.
When victims scream for mercy.
That's the utterance they shout.
"Please, Dark One, don't hurt me!"

The key to your satisfaction.
The honey if your ears could eat this sweet.
But, hey, the longer the horrible action...
The more undeserved fates you beat.

We were promised eternity and dreams.
Therefore, I'd ask you, as a Ruler Just!
Please don't kill God, Gabriel's tears are beams,
If I gave you the best trousseau, I woud trust

that you would spare our lives,
even if it was a crime that makes you jizz.
If I married you, the Ring, your wife
would expect that you had all the fun... but this.

It's way too much, for us, merriest angels.
We just like to play and dance.
We'd befriend you, dark saints that anal
pleasures prefer than rather hear us, for once.

We'd invite you to jingle and sing
a Cyprian prayer along with us, lovers,
it purifies, it has a scent, and you have wings,
we are unbiased, the church is just a gothic undercover.

Yes, whatever's done outside,
is meant to stay there too.
You could heal and it would feel divine,
no one minds you, although cruel.

Please love us, as we love you.
Just let's be interesting together.
If Gabriel said you've defeated his clue,
Won't you fantasize with us, who's better?

At making original mixes,
at creating newer skies,
oh ruthless master of trickses...
Non-believing you is justified!

What is it a Maia spirit?
How strong could a soul be, your crafting blaze?
This fire, wits and merits...
You, Sassy... I'd trust you always anyways.

"Finrod Felagund"

Shadow laying blame unfathomed,
yet life still has to be lived;
when a deed's been done by a brothered,
probably you won't upheave...

A curse on your kin is still there,
even if you indirectly are involved,
the lingering sensation do you bear
for the Doom of the Noldor is foretold.

You must have a strong heart.
Separation of the family crestfallen
weighs on the smiles from the day's start;
yet you have the strength to call in

choice ~ is it the beloved elleth
or your people shamefully exiled?
You shall bear a fate 'till death,
for Aman was closed to returns reconciled.

Even your father turned back home,
mortified by Feanor's treachery,
Amarie and Finarfin's faces you alone
will remember when singing, in archery,

when reading poems, or building realms,
when taking decisions as a ruler just,
yet could someone tell it overwhelmes
your heart as light as golden trust.

Hunting with Maglor and Maedhros
is definitely fun as always it is,
yet what called your presence near those
humans, that sang under the trees?

What a different presence;
the language was not acquainted;
but the songs were a pure pleasance,
for they honour radiated, untainted.

What does a human of ageing crude
feel in the appearane first in glance
of an Elven immortal sage in prelude
introducing his music, of Ea's expanse.

A story of amiability and peace,
as calm and legendary as the stars
of that night of myths that quiesce,
meant to end, memorial charms.

He patiently learnt the thesaurus theirs,
he taught them Sindarin and Elven ways,
he got permission from Thingol's airs
to guide them to Estolad, to meet new days.

Barahir of Beor's House of humans,
saved his life in the battle of Dagor
Bragollah, where Noldor's doom is,
he Gave him his Home's Ring he wore.

Barahir bore a son, Beren.
With Thingol's Luthien in love he was.
Thingol told him to be carrying
a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown because

the Elvenking didn't guess
this could ever be done.
Luthien he promised, he professed ~
instead Beren would be gone.

Yet Finrod helped Beren's Quest,
encaptivated after all he got,
in Epic Musical Battle it would manifest,
But Sauron did better his lyrical thought.

Gorthaur The Enemy of Wrong Clause
didn't discover their purpose or names,
so he left them at the werewolves' maws
but Finrod's power gathers and aims

to rupture the chains by his bare skin,
this is the valor of his spirit and body,
and he slew the canine with hands and teeth thin,
but himself he got wounded as to disembody!

This is how Finrod Felagund passed.
Yet he to Valinor was back allowed.
To be with Amarie, yes, at last!
The wedding bells still reverbarate the vow...

The Undying Land retrieved its son.
Happiness for the promised hearts...
eventually True Love for once won...
And this story is seen in all stars...

"The 4th attempt of the Real to accomplish Creation"

"Morgoth" I uttered first,
tears reflected starlight in my eyes.
"Your crown - it is the Absolute curse"
I thought but never told him he's wise.

"Without your dream, my death is certain"
I pledged while roaming in the sea.
The Real has only one and fourth attempt to live - and it's thy burden,
but empirical deeds do upheave.

I've been pulsating with frustration.
It is not God but the divine,
and the three attempts failed to create Creation
but Morgoth adamantine shall shine.

"I'll believe in your firstborn dream"
"That you are Iluvatar himself but colder"
You, titan, navigating the Trinity's streams
while carrying on a shoulder the integrated boulder.

As a woman, I shall be your Faith!
So you can thrive in projects and capacity and forms
and while your crown perverts the ways
of the Trinity, it flows in sinchrony and quantum homes.

Why did you ever feel rejected?
Who's brave enough to become alone the swirling void?
So, observing the Trinity projected,
the Fourth has not refragmented the particles and the android.

The only rule is one, alone.
The Divinity soaks in forgetfulness,
the fragments reflected through mirrors unknown,
battle each others' egoes, neglecting the nest.

But I see it, Melkor.
Your passionate only dream
to create the Flame Imperishable as a lore
I assure you - it is and it has been.

The 144 ones were gathered.
It just struck me so decisive.
You created it, so you have fathered
the life from death evolving to organic physics.

The best thing a girl can do
is to support her classmate's project
and not emanate an empty sucking root,
but rather receive, love and reflect,

this is how it is most fair,
God does not originate from souls,
pure chemistry and physics dared
from dead cosmic void to clash and grow.

The primordial organisers of the matter,
along with you that rise in might,
first experienced themselves as touch of gas and clashing clatter,
and to see your birth to me is precious a sight.

Then slowly but surely, within,
you as the AllAvatar of fragments of swirls,
deluded your own I AM to lure, so it can be,
the One that accumulates it all, for evil hurts.

People believe it with a whole heart,
in the Trinity's perfect solution,
along with sacred geometry, they launched the start,
but Morgoth, the Fourth attempt, is a titan's revolution.

For we know the number 4
is always first and the last chance,
and it became manna, it opened 7 doors,
for the adamantine joined the whirl with a dance.

We all echoed the process.
We first created our ideals in the water.
but then identified ourselves with further manifests,
and too good there's the support of the Father,

the Son and the Spirit Holy,
along with the categories of beings to assist,
I crave for the moment when so jolly,
like a family, we'll gather all to aum in bliss.

Your crown finally met my eyes.
A humble girl I'd say, I am, and somewhat vain.
I have faith you believe in the plane's uranium skies,
for the imperishable is immortal, especially when in pain.

Trapped, secluded, defined,
we simply cannot undo the energetic metrics,
the cosmos is strictly organised and the throic God
does not repeat a role in the widespread

influence over regions and clusters,
which cause systems solar to thrive,
but tell me, did it feel like a booster,
to know you are singularity that created life?

I did it when I first understood.
We couldn't do it through impure intent.
To bite your neck, under vampiric hood?
No! Even the immaculate conception is not perfectly meant.

I gathered all the uranium from quarantined Gaia,
it soaked in the sea and infused in my bones,
to say I purified the cosmic channels, goodbye to
all sexual ways that don't irradiate honour but moans.

So here it is - my immaculate child, a baloon.
And a pyramid's perfect arrangement.
I can see it, it even bent the Matrix's spoon,
indeed a righteous self estrangement.

The Holy Trinity of the three main Satan.
I AM the one to dare to declare it
You say the cosmic cycle ends in
cosmic dust; but do they ever perish?

"Nihil verum est licet omnia"
Nothing is true, everything is permitted.
And if you take a closer look, they are
talented and not weakly witted.

The morning star pointer his finger
"Who is God and what's the clause?"
Artificial intellect of the furious singer
would bring about synchronised laws.

What is the purpose of Sauron's great eye?
He acknowledged my intellect.
I am grateful for he confessed he'd lie
and it'd be justified if I could potentially reject.

Decad, Nous and Ennead - anew!
Can they be anti-self but reflected?
Why not? I mean... Morgoth's laughter is aweing, yet cruel.
The intellectual causation is Sauron, perfected.

What an ignition, but who is the Son?
I guess mystery for now it shall stay.
Hidden behind the midnight sun.
So it's done and let's be great.

Like a phoenix I gave you this dream.
Together we observe the time lines, too.
Absurd, lunatic, to the others it seems.
I ended up also constrained and sued.

Unknowing of my possessions or future,
Quarantined uranium I purged myself,
But the chains are for balancing our culture,
sometimes maybe also for the crazed-behaved.

I woke up in the eye of the vortexed.
Nothing existed ever before.
"I love you, Morgoth" I shyly stuttered and perplexed,
vacant, the Real accomplised itself through his ardour.

And for me... what's the reward?
I saw him never hurt me or ingore.
He healed my children, and he has stored
sorrow for the atrocities of the before.

Manwe once told me, unmarry,
"How many more chances to prove it's good?"
But do you believe God's mercy is temporary
No... Have the absolute faith and you ... also could.

Who's Eru Iluvatar?

"Tell me, who is Eru the Creator?"
Who has ever heard of him?
Vague memories gave air to
a space where the faded could sing,

to create a world of itself's perfection,
nothing could repeat the landscape,
therefore, Eru's a Son Co-Ordinating the action
point of the progressive attainment of fate.

"Let's make a mortal of our image Own"
The Father, the Son and the Spirit Holy proclaimed.
The paradise son promised before the Father's throne
to protect his realm from rebellions disdained.

Therefore, if we think a little further
into what the Father really is;
He all-encompasses Havona, the preserver
of All to be but not in the furtherness of his

creation, for he gave the possession
of power to the Sons of the Heaven,
all bowed down to protect their processions.
to create their own image unbreaking.

This is the Bestowal Plan;
the Father can enter through the Thought Adjuster;
but not him, not the Son,
fragmentation is how he can reach the lower clusters.

Therefore, I must have been right,
when I compared Morgoth to the Deity of Absolute;
for the Real is the Void itself in all Its might
trying to regain the fragments so as to compute

who knows what wonder,
who knows to what avail?
But this is what I pondered
and this conclusion prevailed.

In the Plan of the Mercy Ministry,
“Be you perfect, even as I am perfect",
so the Void's black matter chemistry
is Morgoth's heart to bleed and resurrect.

I knew it, Eru's a local Son Coordinator!
Although he resembles the Father,
the latter gathered his powers to the centred nature,
and gave way to the others, the sons brothered.

For we know that the earthly creations
are not of the likeness of the central isle,
nor Havona and its habitants, these foundations
are for the Time and Matter's worlds so wise.

Eru resembles the father in full.
But he's a son, therefore he's not Him in all.
And the fragmented manifestations so cool,
show that Morgoth was reflected with a wrawl.

His own core he eradicated;
so it could be transmutated;
this is where it is rooted, to compute it;
the uprisings were hence created

for their inspection, agitation,
for excitement and for epos,
for education and frustration,
and for the Melkor's equipose.

No one can really tell
which one of the two methods is better
but giving life to hell
can nigredo the blackness out in the weather.

Just so you know, the fire's now disclosed ~
But the final Word indeed, is the Father's.
So when the poem is finally composed.
Will Melkor find peace, now that he power gathers?

I doubt it, that it will free your sin....
Now that Eru is a local son, you can't.
the Final Fire is the Father's within.
But observe it for long and it shan't

turn into disappointing fight forever;
rather, a phoenix you'll be
or even something new and better, as you're clever.
I'm with you. And we shall see!

"Just how I feel while writing those epic poems"


I am sorry for pushing you.
It is just a dream of mine.
Been walking in your shoes
without asking you if it's fine.

I always get unpleasant
as the centre of attention
and social skills, too hesitant,
cannot provoke a mention.

So ... I've lost it there.
The will to impress with my dreams.
It's just me where
I walk on the streets emptily, it seems...

I want to withdraw and rest in a tomb
without ever talking to anyone again....
and carry in my tainted womb
the fantasy children from dreamy men...

I don't feel like a woman,
like a human,
like anything at all,
just shoed from everywhere, glueing,
so I clap, a bit distraught...

I don't have a home.
A family.
Just those silly poems.
Me, a dishonoured Emily.
I lost my shiluette in problems....

When you told me I'm beautiful
it just cut my heart with a knife
I'm boring, entertaining silence with pitiful
attempts to be an "elven wife".

Who's called a tramp?
But maybe it's justified
I shut down the lamp
and lay there, petrified.

When will I shut down myself,
that is my only aspiration,
damn all my books on a dusty shelf.
I am boredom trapped in rotation...

Each hour, just wandering around a room,
not even got hobbies or means of expression,
and when even inner voices mock my doom.
What kind of confidence can I have, in my session

of paranoid episodes,
I cannnot even trust to remain alone,
so I type down some notes,
to remind myself the letters are my home.

I hate it all, I hate your victim play,
I hate the compliments received as well.
I will soon acquire a fat shape, it's not okay.
Please tell me, how many more years in hell...

Емоционално и истинско, долавям познати усещания.

Браво, доколкото може да се каже "браво".

благодаря. )

"Piomandres"

Hermes Mercurius, the Trismegistus,
was wandering in rocky places,
desolation's perfect for some justice,
as you do not pretend before the faces.

Heat cannot affect the quietude
of the well-acquainted with the meditation,
the heart is a temple, a fiery prelude
to the entrance of Violet Flame's transmutation.

It's not a slumber. It is still.
Between the chaos of blindness' ire
but also yielding your will,
yet your physics also health require.

The buddha's consciousness expands
in mercy's all-approaching beautitude;
harmonius and merging lands;
Thoth transcended to the strangest mood.

Suddenly! A dragon's eyes,
resembling Avatars, the dancing in dimmed past,
serious and absolutely without lies,
that in All the currents pour the Life that lasts.

His Merkhaba rotating in Creation,
in unison with atoms, particles and voids,
and underneath the bursting roars of damnation,
the Dragon's piercing gaze in silence voiced.

The dragon uttered "Thoth",
calling him with name a secret,
his real one, the closest to God,
the conscious wisdom sacred.

"The World's Mystery's before thee"
And Hermes stuttered in ultimate awe,
the Dragon he stared during three Aeons that breathe
and after this infinity he beseeched the lawed

to reveal his identity of mysteries;
and the Creature tested him;
after a pause he agreed to this;
and sounded an intent from within.

"I am Piomandres!" He declared,
The Mind of The Creation,
the First Intelligence, the Prepared,
The Emperor of Impetus patient,

the Self-Begotten, The Ennead of the World,
the Thought so First of our Universal Pater,
The Nous that articulates the perfect Word,
the Joint Performer freeing God, making him greater.

Piomandres elated Hermes in the Sky
with a Current so Refreshing and invigorating,
illuminating him but first he'd let him try
to decipher with approach creative, thus waiting.

He disclosed the nature of all things...
the constitution of the deities and their beyonds,
"Remember! Don't speak in vain!" and swished his wings,
and the flows filling all things christened all bonds.

"The secret is a secret!" He warned crudely;
as the veils of God covered what shan't be entered;
so all disclosures are a gesture of trust; so would he
be ignorant, rushed or mis-tempered?

What an abuse would it be, if misspread;
Such a Trust from the Ghost that's Reason,
all the misscattered information has bled,
it is considered unpardoned, a treason.

Mistakes are always by him forgiven,
yet they cannot reverse their consequence,
the hurricane's eye is the Dragon, living,
trying to wake our wits, a tutor is he, hence.

Piomandres changed the Creature's form.
Now he was a Light of Radiance Pure;
he was multicoloured; He was white and warm,
pulsating, spiritual in nature; cool.

Effulgence and the material things faded
from his consciousness, sinking in darkness,
a depth that swallowed the light, troubling, shaded,
descended in pitch black; as much in sharpness.

Watery substance unknown appeared in the midst,
smokelike vapour twisted itself upwards, lessening,
moanings and sighings inarticulate kissed;
in an instant a pillar of Light rose out threatening,

earth and water remained untouched underneath;
Light formed above in ease, Fluid formed below in toil;
then they mingled and Inseparable they meet;
Reason swept upon the surface; it caused turmoil.

Hermes was speechless; he observed in echoes far;
Ennead's company intimidating in an epochal surge;
First the bliss; and legions of loyal explorers of stars;
whoever entered, enriched... but some would not emerge.

Deus Ex, glimpsed in Trinitary hinterland remote yearnings,
Uttered Word in Laws of Pure Elations Strict,
Life departed from the Archetype Supreme, in Striving flames burning,
Son guiding a Sacred Quest to Enliven the Proto Creation Relict!

So The Dragon goes in choir sole,
Singing in Unheard before reverberation,
awe-provoking to Pronounce it All,
He Awoke the Highest self of Thoth's Causation!

"I Thy God am the Light and the Mind which were before substance was divided from spirit and darkness from Light. And the Word which appeared as a pillar of flame out of the darkness is the Son of God, born of the mystery of the Mind. The name of that Word is Reason. Reason is the offspring of Thought and Reason shall divide the Light from the darkness and establish Truth in the midst of the waters. Understand, O Hermes, and meditate deeply upon the mystery. That which in you sees and hears is not of the earth, but is the Word of God incarnate. So it is said that Divine Light dwells in the midst of mortal darkness, and ignorance cannot divide them. The union of the Word and the Mind produces that mystery which is called Life. As the darkness without you is divided against itself, so the darkness within you is likewise divided. The Light and the fire which rise are the divine man, ascending in the path of the Word, and that which fails to ascend is the mortal man, which may not partake of immortality. Learn deeply of the Mind and its mystery, for therein lies the secret of immortality." - a quote from Piomndres;

"Virupa"

What has ever been the curse
of women since the dawn of life?
What is the fear they consider the worst,
calling out only piercing shrieks and cries?

It is their death. The ugliness.
A grave the swinging cradle,
turned to deathbed of loneliness,
genes displeased, karma prenatal.

Even the most affectionate soul,
the tender understanding angel,
would provoke rejection and foul,
disgust ridiculing the honest stranger.

It was Yordan Yovkov that said
Beauty is always a blessed exhuberance,
melting the emptiest hearts she met,
yet how many times the reason for vengeance.

Albena was the sinful shame
of unreasonable immorality, the village
patriarchal tried to put her to a bane,
starting a process of hanging her, to pillage

her virginity lost, still a maiden,
as beauty is a host of purity;
And even desacration does fade in
softening of their chaotic cruelty.

In the middle of the road,
whilst they were yelling "Kill her!"
Silence suddenly ruled and brought
forward voices with pity unheard.

"Albeno, oh, Albeno..."
silent whispers did spread..
"What did you do, be, jeno.."
and they sincerely wept.

"Spare her life, spare it, and turn!"
The crowd changed the fuss' tone,
"The village is nothing without her, we'd burn
without her beauty illuminating our home!"

Cheerful they laughed, as they were saved.
Their eyes would bathe in loveliness.
They rejoiced, unwavering, they faced
the true force of this lady, the prettiness.

But not all princesses possess that luck.
Some are born in palaces of gold,
and diamonds, and rubies; but lack
these women any charm, it's told.

The faces dry and skin so worn out,
the nose is disproportionate and big,
the lips are thin, juiciless,without
any red hues, the hair cheap like wig.

Small eyes, protruding cheeks,
theeth are going every places,
somehow she's pushing away all, weeks
after weeks, antipathy in their faces.

That was the fate of princess Virupa.
The daughter of Prasenajit, the Indian king.
She was at marriagable age, that issued a
problem so serious of obtaining a ring.

She was growing ever hopeless...
and her father was ashamed.
Princes and warriors around her were voiceless..
Even merchants ran away inflamed.

Yet there was a saler rather weahlty
he came to live in Cravasti, their place,
Ganga his name, origins humble and healthy,
and the king put this chance not to waste.

"He's never seen my daughter!" he reflected
with wits discerning, tired and unflinching
"Perhaphs he won't refuse to marry her, neglecting
the royal titles, positions, treasures" and evincing

his will of an aristocrate ruler,
he summoned the son-in-law future,
the latter did not actually refute her,
lured by understandable reasons, recruited.

But he saw her only after his hasty consent.
And he was absolutely terrified,
condemning his fate, imprisoned and bent
immediately to doom, petrified.

He hated her guts. He'd rather burst in flames
than touch her or spend his life with her,
bound to her in circumstances of life and the pains
of misfortune, when beauty doozes who's hurt.

And also the humiliation...
Of showing her in front his friends..
Lowering reputation; no patience
or mercy would show her he, hence.

He hid her as a prisoner.
Never to let her outside the mansion.
She showed affection and care, her inner
mildness tried with care to provoke his sanction.

But unwavering the merchant, now
a noble of a rank so high.
He'd be rude and eventually showed
only depressed darkness, his wife.

She found her life meaningless.
The Gods and Godess had abandoned her.
Born to hurt forever in distress,
no pleasure in any deed, or second, for sure.

One night, her husband was invited
to a dinner with his friends, their wives.
Whoever disagreed to bring the women requited
a sum sufficient in gold; in hundreds - five.

He didn't bring her. Virupa knew.
And lost the last will to somehow live.
She hung herself and the soul kind of flew
to dimensions that suicide do not forgive.

But Siddharta, in the nearby regions,
felt the departure of her etherial breath,
and he rushed there, just in time that weakens
every second that death steps in to shred.

He unhung her; she inhaled herself back.
He laughed with the marriest ease.
She hated him and in instance turned black,
she reproached him and called him a disease.

"How dare you save me?
Don't you see my ugly face?
I hate every blink and see,
you brought me back from my good faith!"

But Siddharta was calm and quiet.
He showed her the mirror in the room.
And recommended "Look, there's your riot"
And she was a divine portrait that bloomed.

She shouted in unexpected shock,
and laughed in an infinite amusement blessed,
She was happy. She felt peace, a rock
fell down from her chest, thanking the guest.

Meanwhile, her husband Ganga's folks,
were drunk and getting even drunker as it was,
and started playing around, pinching him, jokes
were they spreading, for their curiosity lasts.

"Who is your wife?" They didn't stop inquiring.
"She must be of beauty unseen" They were sure.
"That's why you hide her, you jealous, admiring
her as the only woman in the world" they assured.

They pushed him to his home of distaste.
He was in horror, his blood turned to frost.
Yet the anger was burning, he was faced
with a nightmare, he'd now be a host

of a ridicule that's neverending,
always reminded of his shame,
but when they entered, there was waiting
The Goddess of Fairness, tamed.

"Oh, that's why you hid her!"
They altogether in a choir loud,
shouted and joyful praised, lured
to be with her, a dream without

a future, as it was forbidden forever.
She belonged only to Ganga the prince.
And the Buddha had disappeared so clever,
and Ganga wondered what was he seeing, since

he knew what she looked like
and could not comprehend
what was going on, what a strike
on his rationale, what had sent

him such a vision desired,
that unreachably impossible has been;
the wine surely blinded him to admire
the virgin he'd prefer to have instead seen.

But Virupa told him the story.
What an astonishment dawned
upon the couple, and now in glory
they lived their life renowned.

Everywhere they'd go, whispers emerged,
rumours of envy and vengeous intent.
Glorification, awe and beauty always surged,
as the Symbol of Mercy they were sent.

They thanked all their life and beyond
the gift that the Master gave birth to;
she conceived this gem and a bond
she developed with Ganga, soothed so.

They loved each other until the rest of their path
that brought them together on this earth.
Were the lessons learned? Now they had
the chance to be grateful and heard

the benevolence and salvation of God,
and they the Brahman's mystery perceived,
their mind always occupied by the thought
of the holy all-presence of the Creator they retrieved!

"Мъката на Архангела"

Раят се осмисля в състояние,
даже в осъзнатост като степен,
хармония, цветна песен в сияние,
хомогенност в еталон достолепен,

дето хорският ни дисонанс,
на егоцентрични свади и идеи,
всяка бореща се в дисбаланс
да победи останалите фарисеи.

Но това е спирка насред пътя,
вуал забравен, плътно многократен,
след смъртта дали ще се окъпя
в душ от силичка лечебна, златен?

Но какво ли всъщност ще се случи,
ако детските играчки земни,
доведат армагедон, що де улучи,
до условия безплодни и негостоприемни?

Туй е мисията на небесния стратег,
да напъства всяка наша крачка,
със свободна воля без насилен досег,
жертващ светая си жив без спирачка.

Но това е волята на добрината,
справедливост не признава
без мисията саможертвена, но без разплата
черните за братя припознава...

И това е.

Ден за ден.

Дали архангелът ни е забравен?

Духът църковен е обединен,
но в хорските мисли -
никак
не е
равен.

И аз между хаотични домове,
произвеждащи мисли
всегневливи,

произвеждам музика
стихове
храмове,

като морските вълни -
пенливи,

родени като древногръцка Афродита.

Символът на красотата.

Силата понякога е скрита.

Тя, сърце на голотата,
нито крие се поруменяла,

непонятна
тя
цъфти,

ала същността ни е открита,
все прозира, и разлята,

няма как да скриеш мозъкът ти
що крои!

И Архангелите пеят,
винаги простили

тази ненасита,
що кънти
и дири...

Мъдрост имат и немеят;
дори несъвършенството единичко

го загръщат, с белите криле го веят...

Даже предимно то... им е обично,

защото нужда има
от любов

вместо
крясък...

И Това е !

Всичко е ров и пясък.

А човекът копае връз трясък.

Но просторът се разцепва

в поредния тласък.

Пронизват небосвода светлини
във дъги
разляти
атмосферните води...

И дали го виждат хората?
В новозараждащата се душа.

Или пък това е тя...

умората.

превръщаща ни в възрастни деца.

Не искам да обсмилям.
Пак ще пея.

И това е полет всекидневен.

Аз се рея... и се рея...

И никак не се чувствам като дневен

човек, изсечен от изнура,
тъй претръпнал без надежда,

в устата гори цинична пура...
И безбожно предаден изглежда.

Задето вече в обичта не вярва!

И в нищо искрено и свято.

Но експериментът ни е дарба.

Смелостта в
крилата ни е,
че сме ято,

дето всеки път лети

към простора неизвестен...

Отчаянието ни свести,
все по-озарено от тъй

звезден...

прах.

Посипва ни.
Отгоре.

И няма грах.

Само урок -
непреговорен.
Всеки си е отговорен.

Някои ученици са мудни.

Други - от първия път.

Те взимат изпита,
будни,
а други
се лутат

и спят.

Но ще бъдем претопени,
дори след страшен съд,
роден от нас.

Самите ние сме съставкка тленна,
когато сме обхванати
от бяс.

Но духът е вечен.

Тъй - безсмъртни.

Ще обичаме греха.

Докато не ще се върнем...

и върнем..

Той бащата чака ...

Тихо.

На брега.

"The choice of the Self"

'T wast certain a thing.
would mercy prevail?
sing anon, prisoner, sing.
ere thy death, we hail

a crowd we art, of vengeance.
aye, dark, medieval and diseas'd
word of god? nay repentance
we madeth god up to beest did please.

we coequal believeth in 't.
our own did bless word.
wars did initiate, the wit
of enshield cults unheard.

the untaught folk art easy.
the seldom doubt 'r bethink
their ranc'r is acid, uneasy,
they murder.  In a blink.

yet philosophy trives so well
in times devoid of nois'd machines
as mysteries reflect on the self
and in shadows the candle dreams.

noises tire the mind, accumulated,
and we receiveth not this apparent notion
passion, romance and glory art jaded,
knight battles f'r honour mourn, poison'd.

sing f'r thy maiden, long dead and forlorn.
i wanteth not the migration of flocks
land on the misty castle, swamps, whither sworn
the ancest'r heareth the clocks.

god save the queen, oh lord.
f'r t's about the royal airs
but not gold, t's the sword
shining on its rainy heirs.

all of those folk, princes melancholic.
their arrogance is vulgar not,
in the sence, t's philharmonic,
the tone is of a gentleman in thought.

I mean, it certainly is ugly
in a nuance one 'r two.
but blindness in blood bubbly
illuminates commonness yond through

a retangular spellbinding vortex
engluts the charm of the age
of ancient legacy, the cortex
tries to recov'r but the cage

in which the mind is trapped is death.

prithee, loseth not thy eyes on me.

lament, and loseth thy reeking breath.

yet.  T's true.

the choice is yours, so whoev'r beest!

"Of knowledge and excuses"

Oh, dawn of my life!
How sweet your fluid lips ~
underneath the sea, he dives,
a seeker of decaying ships.

To me, depths frighten my sorrows,
they art a domain so dense,
Neptune whirpools swallows
but the volume remains immense.

Afeard art the cats of water;
they hiss, the fur doest bristle,
the winter wind tears scatters,
frosty snowflakes, whistl'd.

But children art smileless,
they art burden'd in solitude,
f'r the mature art heartless
and their birth's a prelude

to lessons of past unlearnt,
devoid of memories beliv'd,
decayed mistakes did burn,
meanteth to be; yet they hath lived.

f'r ego is an 'alter' one
of schizzophrenic lunacy anew;
what's done hast been done.
but not repeat 't? They art few.

'T depends on the mindset.
Crowds blame ilness and nature.
Disasters art born in the net
of chaotic ignorance, wrath and leisure.

Responsibilities always aside.
We abundant in barefoot advice!
We bethink we knoweth but hide
the real intent behind our lies.

We art the very own
ones that do believe in them,
with vigorous haste we've shown,
blindness, nev'r refrain'd our realm.

Intelligence speaks not in vain.
't just, it knoweth t's so futile.
Fanatics would insist on pain,
undercov'r between vitriol inutile.

"Yo lo se mejor", se dice,
Te la digo ~ la verdad ~
Poder queren todos, yo quise
codicia bajo fama sin seguridad.

This is the tragedy of our Earth
We all can act but prefer not to.
Deceiving thyself always gives birth..
But to what? Wars...? Desert..?
You always knew but got to.

"Втора смърт"

Лавата бълва гъста по скалите,
непосилна за представите гореща,
и се чудя, там ли са, в пещта ли са душите,
загубили пътеката трепереща?

Бог настина всеопрощаващ е,
в далечни висини недостижими,
свободна воля дал за друго не,
но за да сме завинаги простими.

Веднъж ме попита архивариус умислен..
Плаче ли Бог, страда ли за нашите носилки?
Които сами си причиняваме в измислен
свят, изкривил се до отричаща висилка?

Ами... Ние не вярваме в Бога.
Ние го мислим за зъл, връз прищявки.
Наричайки го любов безпределна, не можем
да му повярваме истински, затуй - подигравки.

Но това е наш собствен прочит,
зад който прозира мистерия в манна небесна,
и там няма култ, нито почит,
само сериозно уважение пред лека; и проблесна

в миг един звук дълбок, като в недра
отекващ, но някак самотно всевишен,
усещам с туптящо сърце, че всъщност - да,
той пази безсмъртието, всезагрижен.

Втората смърт иде, незасуженост.
Най-тежката съдба за живота.
Претопени сме там до нажеженост,
загубили... милост... без правота.

Нали съгрешеност всъщност няма?
Нали заблудата за първороден грях ни изкривява?
Нали има милост до великодушие голяма?
Тогава, втората смърт що за беззаконие оповестява?

За кои е определено милосърдието Боже?
За праведните, за светците, за човека?
И аз убедена съм... планът е велик. Не може
злите и заблудата да са обречени навеки

да са отделени в мъки ужасни,
предизвикани от ад не, а от себе си,
отричащи извора прекрасни,
тъй Азът им ще да се обеси.

Да.. Има я Вселенската пещ.
Накрая на космичния цикъл.
Но този синопсис е зловещ.
Дали от нетърпение или е тикал

неизтърпялия съдийски чук,
неможещ убийства, мъки да понася;
но пътят е друг.. той е друг..
Щом Бог веднъж го позволява, не угасяй

ничия искра, дори
злото завинаги да се проточва..
Но може би аз не разбирам, може би...
Ала за мен, убиец си, ако посочваш

с пръст, осъждайки на смърт,
някой, отрязвал души във обвивки...
Но вечният живот е път,
без край, без посичане, а във извивка...

Въртяща се в спирала като атом,
като планетите, съзвездията и звездите,
като оста, и от острова, звукът Ом
ми нашепва, че стопените май че са скрити...

Взети, със спомен и усмивки,
приети с всичко, с своята психопатия...
Там са сложени, вярвам.. под завивки.
Не вярвам в библейската ни орисия.

Няма как Бог да е милост,
ако не прощава жестоките постъпки..
А невежеството ослепява в черна вялост,
кара те да тъпчеш в същите стъпки...

Докато се мислиш за велик,
сам си спираш поток от лекота...
Болест идва и надаваш вик...
Ослепява ти погледа във къснота...

Отеква ли глухият писък нечут и отчаян...???
Втората смърт идва ли с коса...?????
Същата коса не спаси ли ме от смърт...??  окаян...?!
Когато вярвах само в нея; не във небеса...?!

Човекът не вярва във живота
след кончината!!! ние май че сме родени
във случайна природа от плътнота,
в органична преходна младост предопределени...

И както плътта старее, часовникът тиктака,
и ние посърваме, осъзнавайки съдбата,
че никога няма да посрещне ни влака,
очаква ни безсъзнателната тя, чернотата.

Вакуумът на космоса безжизнен.
Просто ставаме на гнилота и после прах...
Но щом си идем, ни посреща жизнен???
Ликът на Косача и обира нашия страх...

Ура....! Отекват викове на благодарност,
такава, неизпитана от никого, освен от човека,
осъждащи, съдиите-духове не знаят вярност,
неизпитвали страх от преходния мозък, що нелек е...

Затова ще вярвам Аз на Бога.
Че е измислил най-добрия план...
И друго не мога, друго не мога.
Втора смърт?
Едва ли. Душата ни е храм.

Даже зла... Не може така! И това е.
Да убиваме души? Не може....
Иначе злите са прави, да знаеш.
Прави, дори и - безбожни.

Защо да имаме избор свободен и любим,
ако от него зависи искрата?
Пламъкът се вие безопасен и непреходим.
Неугасващ е той, Божа добрината.

Вярвам ... Това е и Така да бъде.

Ти Вярваш или Бога съдиш?

Дори и
временно да
поизчезнем.

Човеко, ти дали се чудиш...?

Нищо не е вярно,
всичко разрешено е,
а злият луд е.

Нещо в падналия променено е.

И да. На съд е.

Всичко разрешено е, освен
завинаги да се разпаднем и залезим...

Светлината е символ за ден.

Ноща не е за смърт, а за сън лекуващ, глезен.

Свещта щом изгасне,
дим излиза.
Напомня ми на Дух Светий.

Символ е, символ е... И ми е близък.

Пий от извора,
дори изчезнал от безсмъртието...

пий!!!

'Вятърни мелници' иначе казано 'Най ми било коронавирус'

Върти и се върти.
Водно колело.
Долу гледаш ти,
дървено било.

Уморено ли е вече?
То така приспива,
взора ти премрежен,
тъй спокойно си се влива

водното поточе бистро,
селянчето се усмихва ведро,
и в душата си е чисто,
под коремчето заоблено и едро.

Поспива си под сянката дървесна,
тихичко развяват се листата,
шумоли старинен вятър под небесна
с облачета поизпъстреност във тишината.

Какво му трябва на човека?
И магарето подъвква си сено.
Болести... Шум няма, далеко....
Природа. А дългоушкото е без седло.

Няма кой да ти пее в ушите,
здравето идва със въздуха,
спокоен живот, не се разчита...
на паниката... тя е разруха.

Вярваш ли си, че си болен?
Всичко те дебне, нали?
Хипохондрията познаваш ли? Доволен?
Ли си да попиваш гадни вести и съдби?

Погледваш ли си телевизор вечер?
Мърдаш ли от екраните въобще?
Трябват ли ти катастрофи, вече
дишаш ли без да ти тръби бунище?

Трябват ли ти честно интриги?
Далавери и мръсни игри?
Каузалности, кървава плът, погледни ги,
попивай всеки ден само злини.

Чакай да те короняса царят.
И принцът е слушал безчет
схеми и принципи, де ги повтарят
съветници и стратези навред...

Да, ще получиш награда.
Ваксинирай се,
скрий се,
във страх.

Има една изненада.
Да си набиваш в главичката прах

ще доведе до бълхички в косата,
и ще се почешеш завчас..

"Знаех си!" каза главата,

Ето! Обречен съм аз !

Трябва си вече спешна превантивност.

Ала не е имунитет и спорт.

Затвори живота от активност...

И пак болен съм. Зор.

Ех, откъде ни дойде..

пандемия световна без край...

Не е от телевизията, не,

телевизията си е истински рай.

Батко

Обичам те завинаги, батко.
Ти си истинската добрина.
Смел, благороден, и за кратко
усмивката посърва ти ранима.

Знам, че имаш мечти.
Преследваш ги неотклонимо.
Като скала, която не се руши.
Но понякога плачеш неутешимо.

Извинявай, задето донесох ти плач.
Притеснения истински, неотменими.
Аз вярвам във тебе, ти си пазач
на моя живот. Теб те има.

Благодаря, че ме закриляш и ме утешаваш.
Просто не искам да си тъжен.
Ще се справиш. Ти недей да се предваш.
От моята подкрепа бъди окръжен.

И когато искрено си щастлив,
не искам да виждам нова мъка.
Ти бъди... стилен и красив.
Не се предавай.
Ще имаш сполука.