| Dorian Copperfield ( @ 2008-07-01 17:32:00 |
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| Entry tags: | alice, balam, blythe, henry, kain, l, mitch, poem, strix |
Flames!
I wr-wrote a p-p-p-poem for mmmy friends. Everyone shares. Mmmme too! I l-learned mannny new words.......fffrom Frank's books. I wish t-to share mmmy wisdom. Some say, some ssay - dumb. I hope not. I have experience....yess? D-Does thisss make me d-dumb? Not sstupid, I hope.
Mmmy poem...I try....t-to keep Koh my jaw tight. I rehearsed.
Sunshine! Lights shine!
We come from specks.
Derivativessss, filaments
Undying solar ffflares.
BOOM!
We b-burst.
Ta da.
Looook! Sssecret page! Haha, I learn.
I....sssaw Balam. From the Bad P-Place. Keh. He was.....n-not bad like them. He isss still of evil, but he...cares. He ffflames. Like Mitch! BOOM.
And an owl. I ssay no more ...of her.
Offff to train! I come! I come!
Canto XIII(10-38), Dante's Inferno
Here nest the odious Harpies of whom my Master
wrote how they drove Aeneas and his companions
from the Strophades with prophecies of disaster.
Their wings are wide, their feet clawed, their huge bellies
covered with feathers, their necks and faces human.
The croak eternally in the unnatural trees.
"Before going on, I would have you understand,"
my Guide began, "we are in the second round
and shall be till we reach the burning sand.
Therefore look carefully and you will see
things in this wood, which, if I told them to you
would shake the confidence you have placed in me."
I heard cries of lamentation rise and spill
on every hand, but saw no souls in pain
in all that waste; and, puzzled, I stood still.
I think perhaps he thought I was thinking
those cries rose from among the twisted roots
through which the spirits of the damned were slinking
to hide from us. Therefore my Master said:
"If you break off a twig, what you will learn
will drive what you are thinking from your head."
Puzzled, I raised my hand a bit and slowly
broke off a branchlet from an enormous thorn:
and the great trunk of it cried: "Why do you break me?
And after blood had darkened all the bowl
of the wound, it cried again: "Why do you tear me?
Is there no pity left in any soul?
Men we were, and now we are changed to sticks;
well might your hand have been more merciful
were we no more than souls of lice and ticks."