The leaves were long, the grass was green,

The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,

And in the glade a light was seen

Of stars in shadow shimmering.

Tinuviel was dancing there

To music of a pipe unseen,

And light of stars was in her hair,

And in her raiment glimmering.



There Beren came from mountains cold,

And lost he wandered under leaves,

And where the Elven-river rolled

He walked alone and sorrowing.

He peered between the hemlock-leaves

And saw in wonder flowers of gold

Upon her mantle and her sleeves,

And her hair like shadow following.



Enchantment healed his weary feet

That over hills were doomed to roam;

And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,

And grasped at moonbeams glistening.

Through woven woods in Elvenhome

She lightly fled on dancing feet,

And left him lonely still to roam

In the silent forest listening.



He heard there oft the flying sound

Of feet as light as linden-leaves,

Or music welling underground,

In hidden hollows quavering.

Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,

And one by one with sighing sound

Whispering fell the beechen leaves

In the wintry woodland wavering.



He sought her ever, wandering far

Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,

By light of moon and ray of star

In frosty heavens shivering.

Her mantle glinted in the moon,

As on a hill-top high and far

She danced, and at her feet was strewn

A mist of silver quivering.



When winter passed, she came again,

And her song released the sudden spring,

Like rising lark, and falling rain,

And melting water-bubbling.

He saw the elven-flowers spring

About her feet, and healed again

He longed by her to dance and sing

Upon the grass untroubling.



Again she fled, but swift he came,

Tinuviel! Tinuviel!

He called her by her elvish name;

And there she halted listening.

One moment stood she, and a spell,

His voice laid on her: Beren came,

And doom fell on Tinuviel

That in his arms lay glistening.



As Beren looked into her eyes

Within the shadows of her hair,

The trembling starlight of the skies

He saw there mirrored shimmering.

Tinuviel the elven-fair

Immortal maiden elven-wise,

About him cast her shadowy hair

And arms like silver glimmering.



Long was the way that fate them bore

O'er stony mountains cold and grey

Through halls of iron and darkling door

And woods of nightshade morrowless.

The Sundering Seas between them lay,

And yet at last they met once more,

And log ago they passed away

In the forest singing sorrowless.

when i = ? i count that, to be the lowest ebb,
and only the word allah can prompt man to genuine song...
truly, i = ? is the lowest ebb,

capitalism has this behavioural
pattern, in which things
fish, cars, aeroplanes are
given the gravity of language,
so they they can express feeling
an via cinema excavate a man's
heart and speak to the heart of man
of a symbiosis...

capitalism is currently concerned with
symbiosis,
like parasites and its hosts...
   it seems we have to pass the concept of
word to dogs or sausages
    in order to keep a dialogue...

i spent this afternoon looking at pictures
of beren saat [beˈɾen saˈat] -
or how we could just insert a macron
and hide the aa... or ah... of fake needing
a dental appointment, or extract a breath
of that H in ah?
ergo? beren sāt... oh, look... it looks
ugly... doesn't it? two strokes to write an A
look more appealing than a hyphen above
the letter with a prompt: prolong it...

it's what i see that i write about,
what i hear can never really penetrate me...
i watch a youtube video of the amazing
atheist and think: kinda like me, by the look
of things?
       nah, not really,
    why am i deluding myself,
i can grow long hair and don a beard,
but i'm bothered about
   the following "arithmetic" that's i = ?,
like i hear a turkish girl talk in a shop
and i'm weak in the knees...
   oh look... they call that why we avoided
diacritical indicators in the first place,
a silent k,             a knife...
a gnome.... and gnosis... then all shouting
and pain in diagnostics...
          
i spent that time watching my grandmother,
and how in poland all the old ladies
are fans of a turkish t.v. melodrama
grzech fatmagül (sin of fatmagül)
the way she said the umlaut over the u...
she said it as an eel, or ill, or i...
that really bothered me...
    (you really can sing forever with only one
word... it's the syllable la...
    only a god that deserves praise,
and receives it in song, can be praised...
the jewish god only deserves the pain
of thought, contemplation,
the trigonometry of (i'm about to become lawless
and make spelling mitakes for fear
that this u.z.i. of a tongue isn't ******* out
bullets as it should be, ******* out bullets / words);
i look at language, and i want a mandible jaw,
i don't want a free-from-pain spine,
to live a life: stiff readied for a coffin...
  it's just rules, and they exist...
i call it the nadir of i = ?, and subsequently call it
a fake nadir of i = !,
    ¿too spanish? oh right, wheelchairs...
what was i thinking?
                        
of the curiosity entombed in silence and with
only the wind to give an answer...

we say just as much... the stress on the iota in
english can easily be transformed into
a polarity, one that can fill books
with ? went there, and ? spoke about something...
competing with ! there, ! something!
   i...
                only when a language doesn't have
this abstract self-identification posit to
express language, this firm unit,
     only then does a language become so, base,
o.k., alkaline...
               they never thought about dissolving
a body once a ****** took place in
an alkaline bath...
      so many acronyms, shortenings,
let's just call it: the french prime unit /
smallest comprehension is reduced to je,
the poles have ja, the germans have ich,
sly *******... east germans say it as isch,
but keep the s hidden, so it looks better on script...

the problem with just saying i, and theorising
the extinct roman pronoun ego,
is that you get ditto... a sort of automaton
reflection of what we once were, and now, aren't...
europe sent thousands of plumbers and carpenters
to china... are europeans expecting for those
traits that could govern man properly to boomerang
back for women no finicky about those call-centre
employees? you ******* kidding me,
you must be...

because some men would really love mandible labour,
and talk less... no, really, the jaw can have a rest,
people want to fiddle with things,
dance the tango, touch, mingle...
     hard to not see ***-tango where the man is
only: huh? yeah, that, whatever...
             women could, once upon a time,
make men believe that they wanted to believe,
to purr something innocent into their ears...
what has made women into men so stating abadon?

i'll cite too much psychology,
    which to me is a pseudo-science,
too little Alexander Dumas, and what Athos said:
the best advice... is to not give advice....
                speak... talk... don't advice people...
psychology is the science where almost everything needs
to be faked, or to use the proper term: falsified...

and they call them the chemists, the biologists
and the physicists.... and surgeons

and they call them psychologists, linguists,
philosophers... and gods...

   that's the strata... i dare say: poets? what can they
usurp, but at the same time heal?
        what is their visible spectrum, outside of:
poets act shamelessly toward their experiences,
they exploit them... was lies beyond this self-love?

you get to write english, drunk,
and... undesirably have to get to look and abhor
the aesthetic, meaning you sometimes write
without conjunctions in the first draft...
then you reread and actually see missing conjunctions...

i talk about grammar like someone might talk
religion... because i was never taught it...
grammar to me is a version of catholicism i might
have engaged in, had i been confirmed in that
"coming of age" rite...

    i've been giving this substance and i'm told to
do something with it: language is like water,
you either drink it, or boil it to brew a tea-bag...
really? a relaxation technique? well... i could take more
fascination with a brick-wall, pretending to play
imaginary chess with each distinct brick being
introduced to strobe light... blinking: now it's white...
blinking... now it's black... etc.
   it's not even funny that i know inserting etc.
sort of killed the romance to your breathing pattern,
and my punctuation techniques, which i borrowed
from the fact that english doesn't intend to punctuate
for clear syllables...

it's only a case to teach better punctuation...
every time i'm in poland i never hear a word about
dyslexia... i'm starting to think that dyslexia
is only an english "disease"...
            it's certainly something you might hear
at school, in a catholic school, about jews...
but back to english bankers: not so good with words:
good with money though...
    i had a dyslexic friend ones,
and just spotting why, of all the nations that inherited
the roman alphabet, the english didn't adopt
a punctuation system from above...
evidently that leads to more diversity...
some would even say: for added complexity...
     but the english can't say: someone will come along
and decipher the current cipher imperative...
oh look... here i go... doodling further,
creating what writing ought to be: a finicky here
and there...

say: a butterfly effect...

   as with the concept of spring, exhausted by two months
of winter, awoken earlier than usual,
moving out of the fake Alaskan imitation laboratory
of seeing so little sun...
                increased productivity: no quality bias.

that's what philosophy books are:
    when the french existentialists complicated it
via "ego" and no moral dedication, effect, responsibility,
i had to write something post-existentialist...
don't get me wrong, sartre is a great novelist,
  but i'd rather stomach being & time than
being & nothingness...
                there had to be an answer to dittoing out
the ego, to stress: no agent of morality...
   sure... me and prostitutes... but ask them
about having an ****** "on the job"...
    
        still... can it be as complicated to say 1?
or to say: the litmus tests proved that i "said" ego and,
ergo, i proved i was a man...
              i might ditto out a meow, or a woof
to imitate a cat and a dog respectively... but dittoing
the word ego out... even if it is just an extinct latin
word... it has too much content to be "abstract",
this thing has memories, it has an imagination,
but sure, if i don't have a conscience i'd have to ditto it out
so i could start looking at my buttocks to find
something worth saying...
              
so first we create this prime human expression,
we eat the -ota                  and say aye aye...
                 and then we go back on that word...
beginning with: just when ms. clinton started barking...
i think that unravelled her campaign, when she started
barking... it must have been the time it happened
at one of her rallies...

   and i could write you any philosophy book,
replacing the "sound" expression with mute sounds,
like the mute letters in knife, gnome, gnosis, knee...
    ? think, therefore ! am.... and just so we're agreed:
that's not a stable maxim... it's volatile...
    since what piece of language was ever stable?
and not like phosphorus, that needed to be stored in oil
should it ever react with water? what part of language
was ever stable?

     2MgO
    (s) + Si
    (s) + 2CaO
    (s) → 2Mg
    (g) + Ca
    2SiO
    4(s)                  the years when i studied such crap...
i might be wrong about one thing though:
   it's an alkaline metal, stored in oil, and highly reactive
with water... magnesium or phosphorus?
         it can't be Na... that **** stinks and i'd love to
see the Dover clifss looking like it... yella...
         no so much blinding Ca...

why have the alkaline metals become so ****** right now?
  oh yeah... the part where i don't feel like
watching ****... that could translate into a wife,
three kids (as if)... a house and social respect...
that part... hmm...

          what is it with these alkaline metals...
so is iron (Fe) and Lead (Lb) acidic metals? could they
be classified as acidic? last time i licked a knife
i did get a tingling sensation as if it might be sour...

so acid is sour... i actually can fathom the taste of alkaline...
it's definitely not sweet...
              what a ******* mystery.

Under a Celtic Moon Night
Warm breeze blowing in the spring
Two great armies cease their fight
In grassy fields, insects sing.

I walked alone with my thoughts
Looked for peace and solitude
Dreaming of love that was not;
So I calmed my warriors mood.

A sound: Enchanted music
Drifted soft, calling my soul
Older than any Gaelic,
Those words took such a heavy toll.

From the wood something appeared
Like a ghost from ages past
Though tried in battle, I feared
My weapons from me I cast.

A girl clad in moon's soft glow
With grace, like Beren's fair bride
Beauty only elves could know
Tears, like pure silver she cried.

Like two stars her eyes did shine
Hair, as black as the night sky,
I could only wish her mine.
Deep sadness was in her sigh.

She stood pleading with heaven
To rejoin her with her love;
A soldier he once had been,
Met his fate, was now above.

This perfect scene did I watch,
When like a dream was she gone.
Left, just stillness with no match
And that night went ever on.

Now oft' when the night is long
And darkest before light,
Still can I hear her sad song
Under a Celtic Moon Night.

Natuurlijk ben ik niet bang
Angst ken ik niet
Ik heb de grootte van de hoogste boom
Heb een huid als een pantser
Ben sterker dan twintig beren

Hier komt niemand doorheen

Behalve jij

Jij

Met je lichaam als flatgebouw
Vingers gemaakt van laserstralen
En de sterkte van een-en-twintig beren

Jij gloop naar binnen

En ik krijg je er niet uit

O Beren, sweetest to my heart!
Alas - to doom that we should part!
I find thee not, I hear no more
Thy fairest song of days of yore.
How may I Dairon look upon?
For he betrayed me 'neath the throne
Of my proud father, he who set
His mind on jewels - how to get
Immortal, precious stones of old -
The Silmarils, with power they hold.

But I care not for all these things.
No more with nightingales I sing:
I am locked up and watched by guards.
My only comfort - nightly stars;
Of sorrows mine I speak to skies,
And into dark drown my soft cries...

(с)kRu, 04.07.2003

Ik wil mezelf adviseren
mijn verleden zelf
niet zo te viseren,
hij was pas vijf plus elf,
wist niet wat te studeren.

Ik wil mezelf vertellen
dat het goed komt
ook al lijkt dat niet,
dat tijd alles weggomt,
zelfs wat je ziet,
doet verloop vervellen.

Je kan alles nog proberen,
maak je maar geen zorgen.
Je foute keuzes zijn slechts schijnbare
problemen.

Beren, blemen, zemen, zeren,
je hebt jezelf onwillend pijn gedaan.
Willens en wetens zijn bij mijn weten
gewillige verschillen.

Wees niet zo hard
voor jezelf
wees niet zo jezelf
voor je hart

Je doet meer pijn, kwaad
dan goed als je het zo laat
en blijvend gemeen doet.

We komen er wel,
we blijven ons best doen,
we komen er snel
als we maar ons best doen
tot in de eeuwigheid.