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(cinalilli)
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The empty hearths breed ashes, fleeting snow;
No whiter bone could scatter on the drafts,
No seedless field could beckon famished crow;
They fly away to seek out warmer crafts.
And younger hands will never clasp as warm,
With breath so distant, cold, and wanādring far;
For Fateās red threads, pulled tight, destroying form,
Flinch under Timeās sharp freezing, winter char.
But hearths relight and save their fragrant charms,
Young hands, new hands, clasp tightly in the spring,
Two breaths that walk away from winterās harms:
The crowning jewels that robe the vernal king.
For Fateās long vessels pulled by Timeās small prick
Make all thatās broken: greased, well-fit, and tick.
the echo flowers
Roaring quiet waters through a field-like cavern,
Purely glowing, cyan-black, before the soft falls,
Home for me is not the river-side star-petaled blooms.
Quietly they sway, their song-rustling echoing
Like the Undergroundās song faded to a whisper
By losing the end of the worldās most lonely dream.
Little noise sounds here aside from the waterfalls.
Once, a music box consoled the star-hungry blooms,
Will I one day hear his anthemās hopeful echo?
Our nation knows that funeral grieving whisper,
Though but one soul has been lost to this stifled dream,
It was not the first to wander in the cavern.
They come here, to cry unto the open star-blooms
A song of many years, by now but an echo:
āWish upon a star,ā I hear them often whisper,
āStars have always listened to even the least dreams.
But though there are no stars in the skies of caverns,
Prayers are always heard by the buds under the falls.ā
The flowers betray their supplicants through echoes,
Unregarded hopes spread uselessly around in our own voices,
Powerless stars, adding nothing to evāry dream.
Every soul for all their worth is left a cavern.
To serve each the duty out of starry hands falls.
The worldās liberation rests not upon just blooms.
Eight times now life has abandoned a soulās voice,
A grim reminder of our collective dwindling dream.
Ignoring our only distractions in the cavern,
We will wait until the last petal downward falls,
One day our determination together will bloom
And leave our days Underground as a faint echo.
To see the shining sun again is our last dream
To shatter the barrier before our darkened cavern
And reclaim at last enlightenment beyond the waterfalls
Beyond the leaking secrets of resounding blooms.
We remember our princeās remaining echoes,
Perhaps in vain we recall the foretold voice:
āFor through their wings we are liberated, each bloom
Will when the angels descend into silence fall,
And empty will be the cavernās echoing voice.
hre poem that iĀ legitimatelyĀ turned in
A champion who bloodied North and South
Whose words, constrained to word of faithful mouth,
King Charlemagne, the lord of Godās own Franks
United peaks and mountains, shores and banks.
His empire won, the West his new regime--
Defending from invasions strange each seam:
If Europe was to be his mink-lined train,
Without routine adjustments, itād prove his bane.
Alas, on Christmas Day the towāring king,
Hands clasped, head cowed, a childās meek hymn to sing.
The Wartime set aside--goodwill now menās.
Today peals loud like cackāling headless hens.
A useless crown, confounded by its peers
Did land--somehow--between his curl-topped ears,
Dropped by the Pope like red-hot droppād mixtape,
From mouths of bards that laud the crown on nape;
That Christmas day, though near no heath-fire
The land was great, but no empire.
Of Rome the crown did claim its homeland shore
But miles from its home, it mattered no more;
And holy it was not, despite the Church
That placed a kingdom like a goose on perch.
But Charlemagne, outraged, could do but naught:
Upon his death this kingdom was forgot.