. . .
[SING: Raymond F. Rohonyi & Liv Kristine Espenaes]
Behold a jocund morn indeed! -
Sun on high - birds in sky.
Yonder the whist firth eathing,
Fro where a gale erranteth.
Ye beholdest but the shadow.
That is a lie!
Mayhap a tithe of trothplight -
Lief I am not!
I deem - e'er and anon!
My words are but a twist.
Tis a feigned lie through loathing,
To and fro, save hither,
Is thy love.
A dotard gaffer, I daresay...
Not a loth! -
But vying for my kinsmen!
...a sapling not!
A hamlet for a slothful vassal -
Soothing ale for a parched sot.
Hie to tell me
What ye judgest as naught;
I behold the shadow!
Wherefore call me such names;
Nay imp am I!
Thou art my aghast hart -
Grazing in the glade.
E'er thou sayest aye!
That is a lie!
Thief of a plot!
Lief I am not!
Now go to thy tryst!
My words are but a twist!
Go, leave, totter!
Fare well! - with joy I came,
Until ye dwindlest.
With rue I leave
A morsel, nay more,
Even the orb cannot
For thy journey
Help me melt the ice?!
Hither and thither!
. . .
Hap mirthfulness! - Oh! joy of grand riddance;
Undress me my hauberk! - the wyern hath errant'd.
Ire of yore - bard of e'eryears -
I deem the brood hath wan'd -
Fro the chasm of the bosom, bale a hand back.
Hark! my dove - henceforth I bulwark thee! -
Teathers of swans in my pillow - I cede my heart.
Make haste! - I pray - respond my plea!
Lo! - a sire of great awe - a knight of
...And of kinsmen weeping for the slain!
Please! - heed my words;
In thy sorrow I will kiss thy tears -
In thy bliss I will take thee by thy hand -
The sapor of grapes thou shalt savor -
And harken the nighttingale sing oh so blithely!
On his knees... A plea to harvest
No heed for the thorns you count!
Wherefore vow me?
Wherefor this gilded proffer?
Wherefore not pay court to a maid more
Morn of a joyous day! Hower 'twixt
Fertile desert! Cheerful dirge!
Misery me not! - man nor beast; envy
Lest'tis an act of wont!
Many are the drapes that my past bury -
Ineffable feeling indulgeth in battles!
Tisn't what thou vambrace'st thy words with!!;
I bethink dotingly only thy weal -
Forgive me for deeming thee direfully -
Therein abdiding with thee
Yet I was a trifle daunt'd.
Is for me the grandest boon!
. . .
Whether the throned Monarch weareth the crown,
Which I know not whether to his belongeth;
Doth he hence the sceptre sway?
Seasoneth he justice? -
Daresay I he doth not,
Will he then use his sceptre as a wand? -
Where doth sit my awe? - Trieth me conjure;
Perchance a spell?; a reptile, a sullied hound? -
Is the gentle rain a quality of his? -
I bethink this fro my thoughts; hitherto, about this,
I beheld to these words no tongue; are the
Monarch's men his thralls or his servants? -
Oft I waylay my tongue -
Those of which are withal by my gnarled heart not heed'd;
Or doth the throstle sing with more glee
At daybreak than than a twilight? -
Brawl not my imp, nor my cherub; reserve my judgement -
Crave not the sword when the bodkin fro ere thine is;
That undiscover'd country; be that
Of calamity, be that of joy, be that of apathy;
Tread not paths of new when those of old are
Far by an only single footstep; walk, be it
On the left, on the right - be it the one which
Straight forward leadeth; the one of correct
I have as until now not heed'd any signs of!
. . .
Filthy harlots - the Lord's grape!
With lore ornamented entreating;
Hollow hearted, heart-departed -
Yet thou reapest the blooming rose -
When 'tis the weed which is to be swath'd
I do, in the blooming flower, pleasure
And me in the yesterday's bind?!
Innocence is reserved for the meek:
Of naught is my grasp ne'er to be!
Hah! - for thee even a hound holdeth the throne.
Unwanted child of mother! - Plague of plagues!
Father of leprous children.
I wield ye to stint this brawl!
Nigh is the ford - yet harken! - do not thwart!
Desirest thou to do it withal,
I shall cause thy body by one head too short!
Sayest ye nay to my boon;
Then wilt thou from bloodshed swoon!
Err me not! - Must ye bethink my foolhardiness!
Be vanished! - Be banished! -
If ye deemest me not wroth.
My hand hieth to unsheathe the sword
Lest thou dost totter -
Whid along! - Wherefore irk my haughtiness?
No man... No man at all!,
Be it lord or beggar
The kine of the sward?
Bereaveth my dignity!
Wherefore holdest thou for
Me such a quality scowl?
Loom my darling sun -
Bear the scarlet colour!
. . .
Come in out of the rain thou sayest - but thou ne'er step'st aside;
And I am trapp'd -
A distance there is...
None, save me and the bodkin - pitter-patter on the roof:
Behold! - 'tis not the rain; thence me it has to be -
I will not drink thy vintage wine, my dear;
Thou hast heed'd that I am of innocence, yet thou let'st thy lass into peril
Thou let'st me be parched;
My heart is of frailty, my pale skin is hued damask.
When thou thy tears hast hidden, "Come back!", thou sayest -
There I soon am to be - but how am I to run when my bones, my heart!
Thou hast me bereaft! -
But run thou sayest; I run -
And there and then I behold that a time will come when I again dead will be.
Thou tell'st me to leave without delay -
I leave with my bodkin and my tears in my hands;
Lo! - the shadows, the sky - descending;
So by a dint of smite I gait ere I run and melt together with dusk.
In my mind in which is this event,
But it seems as if naught is to change anyway?!
After all these years thou left'st me down in the emotional depths -
The sombre soaked velvet-drape is hung upon me,
Turning my feelings away from our so ignorant world:
All the beatiful moments shared, deliberatlely push'd aside -
...a distance there is...
. . .
Stay still patient; wilt thou my sister of merciful troth be?
I shall attempt the halter of thy life make less lighten'd!
I shall climb the yew,
Will it subdue me or not!
Swooning emotions smite my bosom -
I have in aptness depriev'd thy eyrie
Oh! - but ne'er alas;
Fro many another a lass -
Lodge here fore'ermore.
Dodge thither sable of yore!
A narrow dell hath now for me turn'd into a broad land;
A land rich with fields of the Simbelmyne.
Sonorous to my ears are the words form'd by thy tongue;
Conquer me! - Waylay me! - Swathe me 'twixt thy arms!
Make me sense the wine which is drunk by queens,
And let it flow white and full in tast o'er my lips.
Make me sense the wine which is drunk by kings,
And let it flow red and full in taste o'er my lips.
A dais'd bridge o'er the ghyll,
In which a river bottomless -
I would have drowned,
Yet thou drewest me out soaking!
Save thou art not yet all parched -
Eavesdroppest ye: A wee drop,
I can hear it! - I can feel it!
Whence it comes I can only deem,
Yet I will not tarry idly!
Lest this for me is a gay dream:
Let it adamant be -
A dream that will sojourn eternally -
Empty the flagon in me!
In which theatre I will act!
. . .
Harken! - the clouds mustered in dark -
So painfully easing.
Hush! - hearest ye the yew doting;
Its years of yore in a mire,
Each like a corpse within its grave;
Wrought for us a yearn of lief;
Tis not a lore of bale nor loathe;
Harmony and aesthesia are its blisses;
Ne'er ere hath it exist'd so sonorously -
Jostl'd away the pale drape
That us had been o'erhung -
Tempt'd thy shutters to open
And thus quench'd the hearth;
Thou giv'st to misery all thou hast: the cold -
With weal embrac'd the sprounting landscape
Like a star of heaven in the broad daylight -
This joy subdueth until it again waneth,
Save the drooping winter of stalwart.
. . .
Now as I am to be bereaft of my troth
I cry aloud my last words of lost hope.
A violent gust of wind is my frame of mind;
Huxes like moisture through pores.
I am unwilling to forgive
Him who depriev'd me of my life -
Gloaming the sequence -
A momentary view.
Perishing intervals of rejoice -
My supreme happiness is lost!
Baleful emotions of fear - my body is the earth -
The earth is now destined to be made forlorn -
Forlorn from the enlivening energies.
Am I not anylonger living?
In mournful silence I suffer -
In peace I now will rest.
My hard-working hands
Are now reposed.
I close thee my beloved into my heart -
Conceal thy memory in my inner sanctum.
In my thoughts thou shalt forever be -
As a dear and precious remembrance.
I'm dethroned in the reign of entity -
My tears descend like of abony -
Life is the theatre of tragedy -
Dying - I only feel apathy!
. . .
. . .