Showing posts with label art attack. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art attack. Show all posts
CZECH SONG
Beru na vědomí, ze hudba je me srdce
I carry this awareness, music is my heart
Přítel stále věrný, pouze zve jen mne
A friend ever faithful, the only sound for me
Že mi mohou týkat ostatni
That I may relate to others
Píšu slova, z která zpivaji spolu
I write the words, from which they may sing together
Vsechny lidi vidím.
For the everyday people I see
Dám mu své srdce
I give them my heart
Ale nezvyšuje jejich starosti
But not increasing their worries
S jeho smyslem, můj svět
With its (the music) meaning, my world
A že jednoho dne někdy,
And that one day sometime
te najdu můj kvitku medovy
I shall find you my honey blossom
Budu porovnávat te hudbou,
I will compare you to music
A nechat te vědět
And let you know
Ona je nejkrásnější
You are the most beautiful
Ktera jsem poznal
A že jednoho dne někdy,
And that one day sometime
Když bude mít můj vlastní děti
When she shall have my own children
Budu se naladit je s můj sen,
I shall tune them with my dreams
Umění ocenění
The art of appreciation
Ze oni mohou vždy
That they may always
Být vděčný a šťastný
Be thankful and happy
Je posledni den, ležel jsem sám,
It shall be that last day, I lay alone
A to by mělo být, že můj svět ztratí svou světla
And it should be, that my world loses its light
Podél všechny melodie … která dělá mé byti
Along with all the melodies … that made my being
Můj membranózní stěny a poslední úsměv
My membranous wall and last smile
Beru na vědomí, hudba je mé duše
I carry this awareness, music is my soul
Might still need corrections but don’t know =p
SHORT STORY- The Man Who Disappeared
The Man Who Disappeared
If a man who has a great influence on the world were to disappear, catastrophe may result; when a father is suddenly lost to a family, the family is at a loss; even when a lonely individual is not where he was, a select group of people will feel the emptiness in his place. But this story is about a man who never mattered, about a man who faded from memories and hearts to nothingness. Perhaps he never existed…
“No, sir, no more please…” but the stone-faced man was oblivious to the needless wails as he flicked the bloody tail of a whip down on the cowering body of a child, to let loose another howl as he impressed another ‘stripe of maturity’. In a moment, the child was unconsciously sprawled in a pool of blood; while the man merely turned grimly towards the door, flicking off the blood on his whip in one sharp motion. The door closed behind him. He caught the looks of apprehension of the wizened old men. Time is not kind to those good of heart, time added humps to their backs even as they bent over the boy to tend to his wounds.
By the waterfall alone, he gazed lightly on the innocent boyish face that looked back at him. The face had not changed but the passion in the eyes had given way to cold tunnels. Somehow back then, the scars inflicted on his body had killed his spirit in an unusual case of a spirit departing the body. That was his job now…
The ‘stripes of maturity’ was merely a military brainwashing programme. Its goal was to strengthen children to men in an instant, to oppress them, filling them with a hatred and sadism unnatural to happy people. Since young, they have been deprived of feelings and in its place instilled with the desperation of survival. They were the ultimate soldiers, but only if a higher power existed…
He recounted all those years again. It was that same dungeon that he had been locked in. Looking back, his scars had turned to the very same stripes beasts used to scare off their enemies. However he was lucky to have somehow preserved his face from that savagery.
Once again the image of his day of freedom flashed back in his eyes again. He envisioned himself finally rebelling against his tormentor, ending in a death choke after a bloody struggle. For once, his tormentor bathed in his own blood. The inane smile worn on his last moments however made him uneasy for awhile. He had taken the only solution, had he not? He was merely giving back what his tormentor deserved.
Why was his liberation so unfulfilling? The imperfection and the mystifying hollow emptiness haunted him to this very day when it was now his turn to step into the shoes of his tormentor, ever since the day a dead body was disposed to an unmarked grave…
He was awoken from his daydream once again as the two old men came in to dress him up… In those days, they and the tormentor were the only people he saw and they always dressed him up pleasantly. He now looked down on the crooked features of the two young men who once served him, now sallow old men with a gaunt look that no longer recognized “the child no longer weak and susceptible to pain”.
He remembered the days when they were expressive young men who did not have the courage to face up to a giant torturer, the pleasant smile they gave him tending to his fever from a result of infection; the scowl and suppressed disgust at the tormentor. But now, they regarded him in his strongest state with the deepest sympathy and profound pity. One just cannot hate a walking corpse who was seeking death. It was indeed a weird feeling. A person who used to be so close to you is now estranged and aloof without any conscious effort… Perhaps it was he who had disappeared rather than a brutal tormentor…
Without another word reminiscing about the past, the tormentor settled firmly on the man he became and walked towards the dungeon. The smell of death lingered in the air and the tormentor in his last moments held his breath to attain his answer separated by a thin piece of wood. The door creaked open ending with an ominous thump… Like the door which saw him through he was now old…
At the end of the room laid a pitiful form curled in a ball of terror. The tormentor stepped up and lifted the child by the neck and flung him against the wall. The tormentor expected a savage beast to immediately spring to its feet and tear open his neck but all he saw was a limp figure crumbling to on the floor, fixating him with a gaze of defiance… That same inane smile… It did not take long for the tormentor to take in the fact that the body laid out spread-eagle was no longer a whimpering child but in a way an accomplished soldier, immune to all hurt and feelings.
It was just not fair! Why does he not have the chance to be the one who smiles? Was death not the worst thing to life? Why does he feel more pain now?
In a frenzied rush of blood he kicked the body to have it roll over and over… willing it to notice him and respond…the smile flashing again and again at his frustration… He sank to the floor to pound the lifeless body until he was fatigued… The child had died.
The door opened and the two men silently glided towards the only smiling figure… dead. A black figure stood crossed-arms with his back facing the sobbing men taking the body away.
The door closed with a resounding clang leaving the child in the dungeons he had shunned many years ago. In a rare historical moment of this chamber, a child had not died, the tormentor ceased to exist… Looking all around the room which still reeked of his blood that stained the very stony limits to freedom, he pondered on how the tormentor disappeared when the child had supposedly died.
He was always so helpless and powerless before the two people in his life whom he had bothered but was ignored by… His existence no longer mattered to anybody. He was the man who disappeared…
POEM-Life upon death
Am I but a passing shadow?
A dark figure stooped low.
Am I to feel of sorrow?
Of feelings I’v yet to grow.
I am attracted to this world’s glow,
And yet I watch the waves pass slow.
Of bubbles so fragile and feelings so tense,
That of life a trial and its emptiness so dense.
Once I was a soul that seek its home,
And yet in me somehow I knew I never belong.
It struck me weird as I behold the world unfold,
The very stage upon which my story be told.
It was the light of love, of affection and the yearning of men,
It was the night of hate, its revenge and the dying of children.
With intensity, the life of each men, their tales, their motivation swept pass me …
And yet the waves passes me by no longer than their presence were to be.
I look to the star which held a past where I cherished the virtues of life,
The routine is the same but the star above mirrors the past of my rife.
It was a soul that has left my very feathers,
My wings the same but the fiery spirit has turned to dark embers.
Truly I walked this street upon my very own path,
And yet it is with no more than a bitter laugh,
That I shall have whatever that anyone might have desired,
I shall only find myself bemused by my own sight.
I sat a thousand miles from home where a family returns to the earth,
Even as a stranger before me held hope to his chest and a life rebirth.
I know not what this body feels as it moves under my very thoughts.
Detached am I from the very person I am within, all I have truly got.
I am not alone …
I live in a world of mirrors.
It is only as much as I can do,
That I wonder who is who.
I learnt much from my journey, the world is but a dream.
It is as much however you will it to be and every bit as in you it seem.
Ironically as I twiddle with my world by its seam,
That I have lost interest in that of life nothing more than a dream.
Of emptiness and apathy, I knew I would come to this,
I feared and wanted to die when I still had feelings.
Now however with no feelings I wonder if it needed to come to this?
I only wonder if myself would ever find enough to sigh upon my soul fading.
Even now my body rebels my soul,
It seeks whatever that would make me whole.
It runs tirelessly towards a new impulse,
Straining whatever blood that runs through my pulse.
It will keep going on until I died,
So long as whatever path I took was not to suicide.
It is with as much as I can do to not feel empty,
Upon which my soul has only sympathy.
Will I lay in bed any other day to realise one day I'v not lived to die?
That I have lived everyday as if I were to die?
Were I to walk down each day as I truly intend to live?
And keep walking without a future alive?
Were I to have every present intense?
To abandon it as I refer to it in the past tense?
I know not this wraith,
That was born of faith.
Yet another day has passed,
Another day of a dead soul animating my ever lively body.
My body aches and with its memories to last,
I lay me to slumber and myself empty.
With a smile and a maybe…
In emptiness might I finally dream.
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