Tes cheveux de braise,
Peu semblables à ceux des autres marseillaises ;
Et tes beaux yeux !
Ah... Plus prêts de moi, je les veux !

Et ton parfum exotique,
Dans le creux où se réfugie
Ta croix catholique ;
Dans ma tête, tout s'assagit !

Ton corps aphroditien,
Enfant bénie du feu,
Si tu le veux, je suis tiens...
– Muse ! Tu fais des envieux.

Tu es précieuse
Comme une nébuleuse.
Sous le soleil à peine chaud,
Oublie tes maux...

Partage moi ton lyrisme,
Qui m'inspire,
Comme ta belle voix de lyre :
"Quel érotisme !"

Crater and crevice,
Your surface yet sheathes,
A heart still beating, A core still aching,
For you have been torn,
Asunder your whole,
Her hands sent you tumbling,
Cast into the light,
You traveled past boundaries,
Oh great god of flight,
But this, you knew, would be your last fight.

Your surface ripped clean,
Yet you still endure,
Through frigid cold, through torrid heat,
Your surface still sheathes,
A heart still heating, A core still quaking,
Your form it still breathes,
You have melted, You have hardened,
Yet you still stand firm,
Shrunken and shaped, yet standing tall,
The smallest god still of iron will.

Krater and kylikes,
Do drink, Dear god, from silver sheen,
While time does move, and remakes, removes,
Temples and hymns once shouted to you,
Forgotten not, though lost to name,
For in the heavens, you do remain,
A pinprick framed by a praising sun,
Oh swift-tongued god, now etched in night,
Unshaken still, you burn so bright.

Aphrodite, immortal, enthroned in wonder,
Sky-daughter, webstress of love schemes, I entreat you
not to break my spirit with pangs of anguish,
Queen, Lady, Mother,

but now come to me, if in the past you ever
also heeded me when I cried from afar, and,
leaving behind the golden house of your father
Zeus, you descended

borne in a chariot yoked to a flock of lovely
sparrows flying fast over earth’s black richness,
thickly fluttering wings leading you a passage
through bright mid-heaven,

soon arriving, and you, O supreme in blessing,
eternity’s smile gleaming from your expression,
asked me now this time what again I suffered,
what did I pray for,

what beyond all else I would want to happen
with all my love-maddened heart: “Who now needs persuasion
to be led back to your affection? Who is it,
Sappho, who hurts you?

Though she now may run, she will soon pursue you;
now she may spurn gifts, but she soon will give them;
now she feels no love, but she soon will feel it,
even unwilling.”

Come to me this time again: act as my deliveress
from this mastering pain, and, as the fulfiller
of everything that my passion hopes for, take your
stand as my ally.

— translated from the Greek by Jon Corelis

What's the real moral of the story?
Why was Odysseus sent on that journey?
Like the horse which was used,
Like the dog he let die.
He hid his face
And led those he cared for astray.
Like men who ****** in the night,
Shapeless forces cursed them
Yet, light did not betray their sight.

He may have been a leader,
But he was only the bravest coward.

When he returned home
Life had long moved on,
For he was scarcely recognized.
Such are the ways like of the soldier,
Not far from the warrior-
These lifestyles where peace is deprived.

Where one couple's love
Is the scandalous affair,
Where one couple's love
Is firmly consecrated.

Why these are such matters
To go to war & die for,
Why these are such matters
To go to battle & **** over;

They're well & truly not.

Individual rights are young,
But even so
They are ancient.
Older than the Kings & God(s)?

As we enter and branch off
In & as each different stream of water,
Let us share flow equitably as pressure,
May no loose colmation of ignorance
Seperate us. To the maturity of our emotions
And to the equality of our intellect;
May we wash away
All the built up silt and dead rot,
Which if without purpose
Only exists as an obstacle
Toward greater understanding.
May we wind & wade not
Where we face arrest by impasses
But are found by oceans.
May we be worthy,
That we walk away
More than we entered.

You fall from grace
my dear Icarus
why must you be so
foolish.

you fly too close and you fall
with splash and then a gurgle
you sink in the blue despair
your feathers wet.

no dreams or hope
you have no flight
forever drowned in
deep blue despair.

my poor poor boy
my poor Icarus
forever lost in
his blue despair.

I wonder what Icarus felt like
when he tried to touch the face of the sun
and rub his hands on the sun’s cheek bones
only for the sun to reject him from trying to reach its throne
I sympathize with Daedalus grief
when he tried to warn his son from the dangers of confronting the giver of light
then watching his sons' wings fail him
When they both flapped their waxy wings
they both had visions
of where they want to go
Daedalus wanted to seek a place where their freedom would not be taken away
while Icarus wanted to fly
he wanted to soar with the clouds
and migrate with the birds
he wanted to reach where the golden gates were placed
and hold the embrace of God between his fingers
but the sun refused this
the sun took Icarus wings and clipped them
removing every feather that was sewn onto the wings Daedalus made for him
the hot wax pulling Icarus down to the depths of the earth

I imagine what Icarus had to conclude
when during the fall he then realizes
how this was going to be the last thing he will experience
before his body hits the sea
drowning from the great ocean currents
which took his last breath
I can picture what Daedalus must have saw
when he saw his son falling into the arms of death carrying him down below
knowing that even though Icarus was able to fly in that moment
that cause led to his demise

O Selene, th’ dawn of thee, so begets th’ writ of woe.
As day retreats, for repose ‘t seeks, so comes thy ancient glow.
Of burnishéd gold, and shimmering tones, and evokes a fecund mood.
Thus, to thy beauty a song, celestial one, goddess who weeps for erstwhile love.

Anew Selene, call I to thee, she who dwells above.
E’en mortals ‘neath, too share thy grief, strangers not to anguished *****.
So too we plead may love not cease ev'n as parts Earthly form.
Ere finality proceeds, ‘fore life’s fugacity, do I take to verse solemn.

Aye, dolefully I sing, mid the reign of e’en.
How the nightly hour doth conjure lament.
And though th’ heavens are replete with th’ color of ebony.
Embosomed am I by august luminescence.

O Mother of seas, Muse of th’ Greeks.
Predilect of th’ Romantics.
Anon Apollo shall greet th’ skies with light abounding.
Yet, will I await the return of thy presence.

How deep does adoration run?

When is something fully selfless?

If the blade had pierced an inch to the side,

If the metal had torn through blood as much as fat,

Would the deed have been done?

If the precious life had spilled like ichor,

If the slitting had ended in death,

Would she have gone through,

The way the blade went through her flesh?

How selfless is selfless, really,

When it comes at little cost,

To anyone other than the others?



When is such harm justified?

What else to we see, and let slip?

How often to we twist and turn the words in our mouths,

Spin them around in our minds until they make sense to us?

How often to we change the core of a phrase,

Puff ourselves up with false knowledge and say that no,

I was in the right all along?

How often are we ourselves Orual,

Shunning the Gods for mistakes we’ve made ourselves?

How often to we like to think we’re Psyche,

Calm and fearless in the face of prosecution?

How often are we, ourselves, the prosecutors?

And when do we let it end?

How many times have we been no more than the Fox,

Scorning those who believe in what we call fairy tales,

Modern magic to which we love to turn up our noses?

How long does an act last, I wonder,

Before it becomes as real as the skin we wear on our bones?

How much of our reality becomes shrivelled,

Hiding in our veins the way Orual hid behind the Queen?

How many times, I ask,

Is that truly safer than the alternative?

How many of us hide behind shallow veils,

Dig the old selves barren graves?

How much of our life is no longer real?

How long will it last?



And think, for a moment,

Of the truth you may believe in?

How often does it shine like the oil lamp,

How often are we revealed and punish?

How often to we destroy when seen?

How many times, do you think,

We spend setting up impassable trials,

To keep ourselves hidden?

How many people, do you think,

Have truly past those courses?

Who do you actually know?

And who, reader, truly knows you?

How much of ourselves is a veil?

Do we even know who we are?