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Robert N Varty Mar 2013
Libertad
und Freiheit
mais liberté
avec des conditions
mit Schmerzgedachte
con dolor del corazón

Das Gehirn
versteht nichts
mais le cœur, el corazón
se duele, me duele,
nous afflige
wie diese Krankheit
de la peur, de l’amour
de la vida

Finalement, la tristesse sort
und ist jetzt etwas anderes
Keine Gesundheit
pero
no es enfermedad,
no es felicidad ;
C’est ‘rien de tout’
« I’m fine, honestly »

Keine Wahrheit.
Keine Wirklichkeit.
Alles falsch,
alles klar

Je ne suis pas sûr
La tristesse
La felicidad
Die Krankheit
La vida
L’amour
Das Leben
Die Liebe

Je veux les tuer
Keine Funktion
Pas de tristesse
Pas de vie
Keine Liebe

Rien
de Rien
Nada
de nada
Nichts
von Nichts

Unglaublich.
Incroyable.
Increíble.

En pocas palabras,
tout simplement,
einfach ausgedrückt

Die Geburt und
el nacimiento y
la naissance

Est la mort
y la muerte
und der Tod

Fácil
Facile
Leicht
Tim Peetz Dec 2016
Wenn wallende Wolken
Wie Wattebauschen
Den Himmel berauschen,
Die Sterblichen lauschen
Dem Klang der ewig unendlichen
Freiheit.
Translation:

When swirling clouds
Befuddle the sky
Like cotton-wool *****,
Mortals hear eternal and infinite
Freedom ring.

This poem entered my head while watching the clouds one day and I wanted to share it.(:
Since the rhyme scheme and rhythm only work in German, I decided to post it in its original form.
Robert N Varty Jan 2013
Uns,
geht alles gut.

Deine Augen, die hübschesten.
Dein Gesicht, das schönste.
Dein Lächeln, das hellste.
Dein Lachen, der glücklichste.
Dein Geruch, der beruhigende.

(Alles geht mir gut)

Dein Umarmung
Trost.
Deine Stimme
Ruhe.
Dein Kuss
Freiheit.

(Alles geht mir gut)

Meine Anerkennung deiner Liebe
Deine Anerkennung meiner Liebe

(Alles geht uns gut)

Aber dann gab es die Zeit,
Veränderung.
Unsicherheit.
Beklommenheit.

(Alles geht mir fremd)

Mein Misverständnis deiner Liebe
Mein Misverständnis deiner Anerkennung

Aber ich verstehe.
Verstehe ich gut.

Die Anerkennung ist nicht so.
Die Anerkennung gab es nicht mehr.
Die Anerkennung wird der Verlust

Der Verlust des Trostes
Der Verlust der Ruhe
Der Verlust der Freiheit

Der Verlust der Liebe.
Bryan Dahl Jan 2015
Called Religion before Romanticism:
Darling Radha’s swing,
Pressing softly to her blue
Beloved Trickster’s skin.

Called dharma, grace, and savoir-faire
Confounding fated will,
Called freedom then for putting off
The destiny we fear.

From her swing I can believe
In good romantic faith-
While makers of a moment’s
Beauty, steal a tear away.

When I laid,
Bathing in the roaring spray
At the feet of the lower falls,
And wandered through soft blue
Volcanos guarding Atitlan.

When I watched,
Clouds burst from his fingertips
Cold war to choral glory,
Seid um schlungen Millionen!
An die Freiheit! An die Freude!

When I found,
A girl whose smile couldn’t hide her pain
Singing her song’s last echo,
At once the world was not the same, but...
How could I ever know.

How could I ever know...

After the West was won with lies
One man said, "God is dead."
I mute the TV from her swing,
Smile, and bow my head.
Sieht keine Bäume,
sieht keinen Wald,
immer am blöken bis es schallt,
kennt keine Grenzen, trotzdem am flenzen.

Er dichtet, ist aber kein Dichter,
ein Trichter ist um sein Herz,
hält es gefangen,
sein Leben in der Mangel.

Und Liebe war ihm keine Schwierigkeit,
doch die fehlende Reflektion die Konzentration von Schmerz,
immer am Scheitern an der Frage,
wie lieb ich mich selbst?

Er fragte wie lieb ich mich selbst
und schaute doch selbst der Vergangenheit beim Lieben zu.
Trauer-Tränen küssten sich ganz
leidenschaftlich in dieser Liebe, die vergangen ist.

Und so füllte er all die Liebe
in sein Sterben der Freude,
denn die Melancholie ist sein immer währender
treuester Freund.
In der Eiseskälte, das Herz brennend,
spürend was sein könnte - doch wo ist er nur, sein Weg?

Traumhaft-traurig-schön, sag, ist das dein Weg, dein Ziel?
In deinem Kopf wohnt ein Igel, er igelt sich, auch ohne Sinn.
Und Verstand, warum so ein Widerstand?
Der Igel ist am süßsten
wenn er sich nicht einigelt.

Oh, doch waren es seine Stachel, die er erst noch entdecken musste,
vielleicht sein Dilemma,
weshalb der Sog der Unendlichkeit unaufhaltbar schien.
Mag es nicht sein, dass all der Schmerz, die vernichtende Stagnation
in seiner Berechtigung erst in der noch erscheinenden Vision
Sinn ergeben wird?

Schmerz ist das ein Scherz?
Kennst du Leid, kann es sein das aus diesem Leid
eine Leidenschaft wächst,
die größer ist als der Schmerz?
Schließe deine Augen wenn du sehen  willst,
halte deinen Atem an wenn du Luft brauchst,
dann wirst du erkennen, dass du nicht Tod, nicht am Sterben bist.

Wo sind sie die Augen, fern meiner Maske,
so seh ich doch, so seh ich doch
mit mehr als nur der Reflektion im innern des Augapfels.
Ich stürme, ich sprinte, durch Wattmeere im Dunkeln,
hier und dort mein Antrieb
ihr Funkeln,
die Zartheit, die Wärme des Lebens
im Schillern ihrer Träume.

Wenn die Augen lichtleer sind - keine Gefahren, keine Freuden - nur eine Wand aus Dunkelheit.
Renne dem Lichtschein entgegen,
dann findest du auch das Meer der Träume,
ertrinke nicht,
erinnere dich wie es war als Kind!
Warst du frei? Bist du einsam?
Und dennoch, bist du nicht allein, so fragen dich die Leute:
Ist das Freiheit?

Erkenne dein Herz, denn es ist genug!
So zeige es und lege die Wege aus Blut,
Venen im Raum zwischen dir, zwischen mir, zwischen ihr.
Liebe die Liebe, sie ist es, die dich bis zum Altar dieser Worte trug.

----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------

Does not see trees
does not see any forest,
always bleating until it echoes,
knows no limits, but hanging at the same time.

He is a poet, but he is not a poet
a funnel is around his heart,
keeps it captive,
his life in short supply.

And love was no difficulty for him
but the lack of its reflection his concentration of pain,
always on the failure of the question -
how do I love myself?

He asked - how do I love myself
and though he watched his past in persistent love.
Mourning tears kissed in completion,
passionate in this love that has passed.

And so he filled all the love
into his dying happiness,
melancholy, his longest,
most faithful friend.
In the freezing cold, the heart, burning,
sensing what could be - but where is his way?

Dreamlike, sad and beautiful,
say, is that your way, your goal?
A hedgehog lives in your head, it hisses, even without meaning.
And mind, why such a resistance?
The hedgehog is the sweetest
if he does not curl up to hide oneself away.

Oh, but it was his sting that he had yet to discover,
maybe his dilemma,
why the pull of infinity seemed unstoppable.
Couldn't it be, that all the pain, the devastating stagnation
will first unfold its justification
in a yet to come appearing vision.

Pain, is this a joke? Do you know sorrow?
Could it be that out of this sorrow will grow passion,
bigger than pain?
Close your eyes if you want to see,
hold your breath when you need air,
then you will realize that you are not dead, not dying.

Where are they, these eyes, far from my mask,
Oh, I see though, more than just the reflection inside the eyeball.
I storm, I sprint, through mud flats in the dark,
here and there my drive
her sparkle,
the tenderness, the warmth of life
in the iridescence of her dreams.

When the eyes are deserted - no dangers, no joys -
just a wall of darkness.
Run towards the light, then you will also find the sea of ​​dreams,
do not drown,
remember how it was as a child!
Were you free? Are you lonely?
And yet, if you are not alone, people ask you:
Is that freedom?

Know your heart, because it is enough!
So show it and create those ways out of blood,
veins in space between you, between me, between her.
Love the love, it carried you to the altar of these words.
A spontaneous collaboration with my wonderful friend Matthias.
We took turns writing these verses. I started,
he wrote the second and so on.

I tried to translate it into English as accurately as possible, but there are some slight differences and rhymes are lost.

27.10.18
22:16
Joellei Jul 2017
if you've ever
played "airplane"
with a child on carpet
and let them dangle off of your bare feet
you've tasted a corner of heaven where you breathe their
laughter
Paige Miller Apr 2013
It’s a free country, whose prices are skyrocketing,
skyrocketing with the number of secrets.
Pick up pamphlets proclaiming promises,
but look how the fine print demands your liberty.
Everything is written in the same language,
the exchange rate for a few dollars.

Pieces of paper riddled with numbers, dollars
burn through pockets, leaving scars with pain skyrocketing.
The poor and huddled masses all speak the language,
exchanging on the black market fragments of skeleton secrets.
Torch in one hand, book in the other, let’s ask Lady Liberty
why the cobblestone was pressed with broken promises.

Collect the torn shreds of scattered paper promises,
recycle, dye, reprint, now you have dollars.
Hear the cracks ring through the bell of liberty,
sending a sound shockwave skyrocketing,
blowing the dust off old, forgotten boxes stuffed with secrets,
lies that became incorporated. We all cry in the same language.

A father speaks to his daughter in the language
of soccer games and zoo trips. Shattered promises,
fill the gaps between their hearts, fueled by secrets.
Problems he tries to fix by handing her a few dollars.
His excuses keep coming and her frustration is skyrocketing.
She desires greener pastures, to run away with liberty.

In Korean it’s jayu. In Russian it’s svoboda. Liberty
translates to the same message in every language.
Liberté, the distance between oceans is skyrocketing
as worn hands struggle holding glass promises.
La libertad! Paper sons are born spending hard earned dollars,
confusing pesos with dollars, their lies with their secrets.

The walls are willing to whisper your secrets,
silence can be exchanged for handfuls of liberty.
A binding contract, you’ll get paid with dollars.
The ultimate truth: it’s the universal language.
Homes are built on a foundation of hollow promises,
with no door to escape, and the scaffolding is skyrocketing.

Freiheit! Voices skyrocket into one language,
tearing holes in liberty where promises lied,
it all costs something. Dollars buy secrets. Dollars hide secrets.
Souleater Dec 2017
Das Land verbreitet Hass Tiraden,
Jetzt ist der Zeitpunkt, stellt euch auf die Barrikaden
kämpft für euer Glück
ihr bekommt es nicht einfach so zurück...
Es ist klar das es nicht einfach wird!
Habt keine Angst und zeigt euren Mut, tut nicht so als ob ihr nichts hört
ansonsten sehen wir alle Blut
wenn ihr jetzt nichts tut,
schürt ihr nur weiter die Glut...

Die Welt ist eins
Donald Trump nicht nur deins!
Ist Freiheit nichts wert ?
Ist das der Grund warum jeder weiter fährt ?
Wollen wir uns wirklich selbst zerstören?
Es ist an der Zeit zuzuhören!

Wie konnten wir es nur soweit kommen lassen ?
Wir haben doch keinen Grund zum hassen...

Nach all den Jahren nichts gelernt aus unseren Fehlern
die Friedhöfe werden voll sein mit Gräbern...

Macht und Gier, das ist es worum es geht
eigentlich verwunderlich das sich die Welt noch dreht
es gibt genug Grausamkeit auf dieser Erde,
der Grund warum ich nicht aufgeben werde.
Denkt nach was wir erreichen können wenn wir frei von Vorurteilen sind
Freiheit zu spüren klingt unglaublich, wie das Wunder von Kind
Souleater Dec 2017
Beziehungen im allgemeinen
sind Dinge die einen vereinen
Dein Partner gibt dir Freiheit
und ihr wisst zeitgleich das ihr niemals allein seid

Kein Grund sich einzuengen
einen immer versuchen zu etwas zu drängen,
sondern Freiheit zu schenken
und nicht nur an sich zu denken
Gemeinsam mehr sein als eins
Gefühle verstehen solang bin ich deins
Bester Freund und Partner in einem
klingt komisch über dieses Thema zu reimen

Was lockeres schön gut
endet jedoch meistens in Wut
Denn irgendwann werden Gefühle entstehen
dann kannst du nicht mehr einfach nur weitergehen....
Maximilian Nov 2018
Ach, Sarah über das Zeichen beim Dasein
Wie der gesammelten Wege eines Weges
Des goldenen Feldweges rein charme

Der warm tragenden Wände unter die Schatten
Die heißersehnte Erfassung
Wird die Freiheit des ewigen Raumes geben
Auf die Hand zur Leinwand des Antlitzes der Natur
Die Quellen der Submarine, der versteckte reine erste Mensch

Den Thron zu führen, das Flüstern nicht aufgezählt der Weisheit der Wehen
Der lebendige Anfang der schaffenden Zeit.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
.alt. title? drunk's acrobatics, but prior to? nazis nazis nazis, my grandfather doesn't have bad memories of the soldiers clad in black coco chanel numbers occupying my town of birth... he remembers: herr! herr! bitte bonbon! and they would give him sweets so sickly that my great-grandmother would have to put his hands under the tap to unstick them... even some otto *******wasn't a bad man, he was a soldier, he probably had a wife and children... he was human: not a part of some modern cult following of a horde of mythological evil... i once mentioned the name: krupps to my grandfather, he, having worked in the metallurgy industry clearly remembers the krupp family... i mean, magnificent feats of engineering: krupp K5, schwerer gustav... the gustav? come on... compared to the soviet OTR-21 tochka? ha ha... and why prevail with the cultural significance of nazis? movies, video games... worthy opponents? i can't see them like the sort of fetish they are for the modern soviet antithesis left in the west... even in poland the youth will say: zz-top - sharp-dressed men... wehrmacht's M40 and M43 Heer uniforms... everyone can agree: the best dressed army in history... which leaves me with a fetish for the german language from time to time... i just can't help it... besides... ah... the sub-plot title... drunk's acrobatics... well, it's England, it's June, Wimbledon is in full swing, cricket: england will face off australia and lose the semi-final, india will play ne zealand and win, australia will win the world cup... but it's so hot, or so humid... come morning i either fall out of bed and continue sleeping on the cool wooden floor, or, like i did yesterday, go into the corridor and sleep on the wooden floor there... mid-dream wake up call from the heat... thinking i was still in bed about to fall onto the floor from a height of half a meter... fall: i did... from the corridor landing onto... the ******* stairs! 1.7m fall onto a ******* zig-zag of gradual elevation... and upon reaching my final destination just shy of my head being split open on the kaloryfer (radiator) i woke up just a little bit more and simply utter: o kurwa (o' kurva... oh ****)... drunk's luck... minor aches / bruises the next day... head feels a little bit wonky... like i put on a kippah to the side of my head like a bowler hat donned by jack lemmon in the apartment (1960)... like icarus / lucifer head first a-grade drunken acrobatic dive into the unknown... seemigly picked up and thrown off the landing... pure magic... clearly. again: the left is really obessing about nazis, i'm starting to suspect they have a secret fetish for the uniforms, that they want them to return... they are seemingly searching for their ******* unicorns, their mythological army of satan... while there was poor otto *******saying: bitte mein gott: ein morgen und ein weißwurst und pumpernickel für frühstück; doesn't get simpler than that.

apparently it's become pointless
stripping someone
to a pronoun,
            given the "gender neutral"
modus operandi,
  of the existentialists' "i",
ditto: being designated,
    "worthwile",
   to the confines of the maxim:
to angels - vision
of god's throne;
          to insects -
   sensual lust
...
              mind you,
   when weren't
       the emblems of,
said region,
              digested within /
by the confines
     of the ivory cavern;
limp phallus,
        dry *****...
              dry mouth
and a wet tongue...
       synonym of
            talking: a deßert;
note:
    punctuation marks
(apparently),
   are not best
synchronised with
conjunctions...
          which sounds
like a grammatical
enigma, that are not best,
   but so does **** sapiens:
which stems from
nomadic right to left,
             wise, man...
any further blah blah
and you concern yourself
with extracting
toilet paper...
        or, whether or not,
111 via the ****
    subsequently smeared
across a wall is
not the most perfect
        archetype of graffiti...
     siarka...
                sulphur is a word
with a- priori
         connotations,
    stressing the hyphen
"prefix"...
                    denoting:
without a prior example...
   an etymological cul de sac...
a dodo...
                           συλφoρ...
because disecting a word:
  συλ-                -φoρ?
                sol associated with
the spontaneity of phren?
        history is but
one narrative...
           but what became
of the hammer and the sickle,
became the tongue and scythe:
  
                  für
                       freiheit!

said a poem,
     objecting to the confines
of, paragraph,
         stating:
                     myopia, darin!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. i'm sorry, i'm about to be pedantic, given the near, hit & miss terrorist attack near the houses of Parliament... one seriously injured... send my regards... i rather wish him dead, with what's to come...

i.e. his fault!
     mea culpa!
**** it, crucify the egyptian
along with...
these people think they can
pass off
  the dead sea scrolls,
and, somehow,
forget, forge,
the nag hammadi archeological
evidence
of encyclopedic evidence?!
you have to be
******* kidding me,
and enforcing a game
of hide & seek in the footnote
section....

   macht frei...
   St. Paul's of
London heard the
Wilhelm Zeppelins...
   macht ein freiheit!

alles ist freiheit,
    und alles das schon war!

you want another Heß rephrase?

     how about viz einz...

  ha ha? mein frau?
  
  
               parading the skies over London,
that, current, lunacy circus central...
bereft closure to
the Cairo district,
and...
funny... post-colonialism
is not, exactly, littered with
nostalgic echoes...
          somehow, the whole "*****"
is missing...
  
           but there is a point...
pedantry overcomes me...
Bukowsky? Russian...
but Bukowski?
western Slavic heritage...

the person in question...
sorry, it's a required pedantry...

piotr... strzok....
          ssssss't' je suis...
                   + Occam's razor...

     RZ is a grapheme...
         je m'appelle...
   je, je...

                too many consonants
jumbled together?
oh look...
here's an alternative...

   piotr stżok...
**** me!
how did an R and an "excessive"
Z still appear / disappear...
with a levitating dot above
a letter, that, English
only invokes to be, "proper",
over ιoτα?!

there is no in excess consonant
in the name,
   you simply don't know how
to cut syllables
in translated-worthy surnames...

see how rz became a ż?
concerning the English dominance
of the Latin alphabet...
you're not exactly mispronouncing words...
English, inheritor of
ancient Latin...
   hasn't bothered to deviate with
a concept of orthography...
    that rare strand of literati
aesthetics...

         sorry, it hasn't...
you can exactly mispronounce words,
without a clarity of syllables
under the tongue / scalpel
of the eyes digesting the timing
of pronunciation...

intra-verbum -
up-and-coming journalists,
bothered about the
inter-verbum
utility of the semi-colon?!
you're joking, right?!

            now watch them learn
the fact that Latin,
genesis - Horace -
hoc erat in votis -
         (this was the point of my
wishes)...

               accumulated both the acute,
reign, and the umlaut,
from above...

the the tailing...
as plain and simple...
revisionism of sigma (σ)...
   in the frivolity of a Parisian café
(technically
                          cāfé)
              garçon... garςon...
because, if we're really going to play
these sort of games?
   gloves off...
         now i'm punching at punctuation
from both above and below
a word, deviating from inter-verbum
punctuation indicators,
working my way into the
intricacy of inter-verbum...
  oh don't worry...
you can have the EMOJI hieroglyphics
to mind...
and... whatever other degeneracy
comes to mind...
   i'm stealing the Hebrews.

— The End —