Swan Maid Of Tuonela
© Surazeus
2018 01 30
While forging from dark gloom the key of love
to reopen your ambiguous heart,
and fill it with treasure of memories
of our eating pears by river of tears,
I saw emerge from shadow of mute woods
the swan of Tuonela with blood-red wings.
Gliding on smooth wind from my gasping eyes,
she scatters feathers from her broken wings,
so I retrieve one from the wheel-gouged mud
and sharpen its tip with my hungry teeth,
then sit in boat I built from fractured bones
to write spells with runes on tablet of wood.
Drifting in shimmering shadows of hope,
I see through swirling mist of twilight glow
most pure shining light of beauty and truth
approach as tall woman in long white gown
and hair gold as sunlight streaming through rain
who pierces my heart with diamond-blue eyes.
Reaching out thin hand, white as falling snow,
Tuonetar offers gold goblet of mead,
so I grasp it with both hands, trembling cold,
and lift it to my lips to drink her love,
but see black wine mixed with mushrooms and blood
from poisonous adders and rotten apples.
I hesitate, and gaze in her clear eyes,
vast as the empty blue sky of desire
where I may float numb in oblivion,
but Kalma with hair red as writhing fire,
stinking like corpses rotting in mud graves,
kisses my lips, enticing me to drink.
I drink the blood of ten billion dead souls,
and all their dreams of aching lust and hope
slither through the throbbing veins of my flesh,
so I clutch hips of luscious Lowyatar,
howling wild as black wind through mountain peaks,
and impregnate her with seeds of my soul.
Floating on the lost memories of my breath,
I dream the first intensive flash of lust
that bursts out pulsing from the core of death,
and flare on wings of light in boundless void
to spiral into galaxies of eyes
who wake on every planet in the vortex.
Transforming back to original form
of long slender weasel, serpent with fur,
I race along the shores of gushing rivers
in ten thousand valleys of spinning globe
and slip through the net cast by Tuonetar
to escape hands of Tuoni that clutch ghosts.
Gasping for breath in river of the dead,
I stare in celestial sphere of her eye,
then crawl on shore under huge sprawling tree
where sunlight glows contained in apple core,
so I pluck sweet fruit and eat the pure rain
as cold wind of Kalma caresses me.
Picking up the red feather from the swan,
I sketch circles and lines with flapping wings
as musical notes to capture the song
of sorrow and hope I hear on the wind,
then sign it with my name, Sibelius,
before rain smears ink into flowing streams.
© Surazeus
2018 01 30
While forging from dark gloom the key of love
to reopen your ambiguous heart,
and fill it with treasure of memories
of our eating pears by river of tears,
I saw emerge from shadow of mute woods
the swan of Tuonela with blood-red wings.
Gliding on smooth wind from my gasping eyes,
she scatters feathers from her broken wings,
so I retrieve one from the wheel-gouged mud
and sharpen its tip with my hungry teeth,
then sit in boat I built from fractured bones
to write spells with runes on tablet of wood.
Drifting in shimmering shadows of hope,
I see through swirling mist of twilight glow
most pure shining light of beauty and truth
approach as tall woman in long white gown
and hair gold as sunlight streaming through rain
who pierces my heart with diamond-blue eyes.
Reaching out thin hand, white as falling snow,
Tuonetar offers gold goblet of mead,
so I grasp it with both hands, trembling cold,
and lift it to my lips to drink her love,
but see black wine mixed with mushrooms and blood
from poisonous adders and rotten apples.
I hesitate, and gaze in her clear eyes,
vast as the empty blue sky of desire
where I may float numb in oblivion,
but Kalma with hair red as writhing fire,
stinking like corpses rotting in mud graves,
kisses my lips, enticing me to drink.
I drink the blood of ten billion dead souls,
and all their dreams of aching lust and hope
slither through the throbbing veins of my flesh,
so I clutch hips of luscious Lowyatar,
howling wild as black wind through mountain peaks,
and impregnate her with seeds of my soul.
Floating on the lost memories of my breath,
I dream the first intensive flash of lust
that bursts out pulsing from the core of death,
and flare on wings of light in boundless void
to spiral into galaxies of eyes
who wake on every planet in the vortex.
Transforming back to original form
of long slender weasel, serpent with fur,
I race along the shores of gushing rivers
in ten thousand valleys of spinning globe
and slip through the net cast by Tuonetar
to escape hands of Tuoni that clutch ghosts.
Gasping for breath in river of the dead,
I stare in celestial sphere of her eye,
then crawl on shore under huge sprawling tree
where sunlight glows contained in apple core,
so I pluck sweet fruit and eat the pure rain
as cold wind of Kalma caresses me.
Picking up the red feather from the swan,
I sketch circles and lines with flapping wings
as musical notes to capture the song
of sorrow and hope I hear on the wind,
then sign it with my name, Sibelius,
before rain smears ink into flowing streams.
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