xxRaiinn

in the gloom, feathers brush bared flesh and words fail the wings making a nest about storm-wracked branches wailing and baying in the wind; and where the down touches bark, a warm, fluttering caress quiets the shaking in the uppermost twigs where the sky’s roots are, and where the clouds spill oceans into the silken sea.

in my mind i built a fortress its walls were made of clay i sent my ravens forth to guard me day by day i left myself defenceless my sword my only shield within, the hearth sat lifeless before my foes i quailed my walls fell into tatters asunder broke my sword i built myself a fortress a home i failed to ward

die nacht ist meine mutter schön ist sie und doch kalt kalt wie der schnee kalt wie die sterne kalter als meinem blut die nacht ist auch mein herz da fällt der rein nicht auf mein gesicht aber tief tief ins mir und da scheint der mond weiß ist er und kalt ein toter bruder der sonne mein toten bruder wär ich die sonne dann würde ich gefühl lieben dann würde ich schreien dann würde ich lächeln dann würde ich wahrheit sehen aber die nacht ist meine mutter und ich bin nur ihr tochter nur ein stern einsam ins himmel.

The seasons of her heart begin with winter. She is sharp and cold, and sometimes fatal. Yet under snow are nestled the seeds of spring, which blossom with the melting of the last flakes, and sprout quickly under the fast warming sun. Summer comes quick and lasts an age, and the height of it is slow in its passing. With trust, care, and warmth she is nourished until the bonds wither with anguished radiance, or are cut swiftly by the harsh wind of a schism, blowing every browning leaf from the trees, shaking their trunks to the roots. Winter comes again, lying asleep. Yet the joy in the sun is never dimmed, not permanently.

3 March 2010 Went to the library today, to find reference sources for the essay assigned for English. Ended up borrowing other things as well; a copy of the Poetic Edda, a book by Terry Pratchett that I have longed to read for some time, and a peculiar volume of ponderous size with letters so faded on the cover that I had to look at the stamp on the back to learn which book it was. Necronomicon, it said, with a period at its end, as though such a title speaks for itself. What little I know of Latin tells me that this means "The Book of the Dead", or "The Book of Dead Names". Funny title for a book, I think. It is sitting open on this desk no