Galadriel's Song

Original par J.R.R. Tolkien

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:
Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.
Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,
And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.
Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,
In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.
There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,
While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears.
O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;
The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away.
O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore
And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.
But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

Elbereth

 

Original par J.R.R. Tolkien

Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!
O Queen beyond the Western Seas!
O Light to us that wander here
Amid the world of woven trees!

Gilthoniel! O Elbereth!
Clear are thy eyes and bright thy breath!
Snow-white! Snow-white! We sing to thee
In a far land beyond the Sea.

O stars that in the Sunless Year
With shining hand by her were sawn,
In windy fields now bright and clear
We see your silver blossom blown!

O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
We still remember, we who dwell
In this far land beneath the trees,
Thy starlight on the Western Seas

  

Poem of the Ring

Original par J.R.R. Tolkien

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

Par Chiara Cadrich

Aux Elfes trois Anneaux pour régner sur la Terre,
Sept aux Seigneurs des Nains dans leurs salles de pierre,
Neuf aux hommes ci-bas destinés au trépas,
Un pour le prince noir couronné de ténèbres
Au Pays de Mordor où s'étendent les ombres.
Un Anneau suprême pour les dominer tous
Rameuter leurs terreurs et les enchainer tous
Au Pays de Mordor où s'étendent les ombres

Dada poem

 At brb f charger by they egg net bag brandy by eng

I'm drum hedge hem hem and get dnt brush by f be

Judge he he my f gndhd. HD HD and venue HD

Judge run run they run run run run they n nd turn g

Greg she dun he he tnx dh d h eh Sydney eh 

Dv bent fund he bent run fund funny shud he

Burnt fund th fund h  fund g dun th Bush end g

They'd my then but be gen d budget th run

Tend the tend then much then hd hd dh hd 

Bugs but he dg dg he dg. eh eh dgdg dgn

Russian love song

 

Devonport by Chloe Honum

 

Devonport

Chloe Honum

The man has chosen that he wants his ashes scattered from the end of the pier where he used to fish with his buddies. They’d sit on overturned paint buckets. Sometimes the waves gusted up and the hems of his pants got wet and salty. He liked the gulls that stood on the railing, all puffed up with sky. Having made the decision, he walks at dusk to the end of the pier and looks out at the sea. As he turns away, he sometimes gives a small, happy nod, like a man thinking yes, I will buy this house.

.George Orwell Sometimes in the middle autumn days

 🍔

George Orwell

Sometimes in the middle autumn days

Sometimes in the middle autumn days,
The windless days when the swallows have flown,
And the sere elms brood in the mist,
Each tree a being, rapt, alone,

I know, not as in barren thought,
But wordlessly, as the bones know,
What quenching of my brain, what numbness,
Wait in the dark grave where I go.

And I see the people thronging the street,
The death-marked people, they and I
Goalless, rootless, like leaves drifting,
Blind to the earth and to the sky;

Nothing believing, nothing loving,
Not in joy nor in pain, not heeding the stream
Of precious life that flows within us,
But fighting, toiling as in a dream.

So shall we in the rout of life
Some thought, some faith, some meaning save,
And speak it once before we go
In silence to the silent grave...

By Your Hand Haʻåni Lucia Falo San Nicolas for Deon

 

By Your Hand

Haʻåni Lucia Falo San Nicolas

for Deon I peer at the ridges of your palm rested along the crevice of mine, while tracing your jagged vasculature with a delicate press of my finger, and I explore every uneven wrinkle, every pronounced callus, every rounded mole like it is the hilly, stone-ridden backyard of my childhood home in Mongmong. I know this place. I have been here before. I read the swirls inscribed into your firm dark skin, sound out each node and connecting branch, sew syllables into words that spell out gima’: home. I raise your hand transposed against the evening sky, clear of clouds, and I can find the constellations within you. Did you know our forefathers did this at sea— placed their arm to the heavens to translate the stars? Master navigators of the open ocean, yet you, my love, are more than a map; I dare not fold nor decipher your complexity. You are the beloved, longed-for destination at the end of the journey, the place that our ancestors craved return, the reason for the expedition—refuge, promise, hope. You are home.