Folklore

forbidden pt 2

600 YEARS LATER

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Forbidden pt 1

The wind blew fiercely as the night called to the crescent moon’s light. Heavy breathing and screams were muted from within the dark woods. “Please don’t kill me” a young maiden screamed as she tripped to the moisten dirt. A beast stood before her with glowing blue eyes as if he was looking into her soul. As the beast looked at her tattered body covering in dirt and musk he grabbed her arm lifting her to the skies. “Humans deserve nothing but death and that is what I give to you the same torture I live with every day of my life.” The beast kissed the maiden, biting off her tongue and devouring her body. The monster bathe in the sweet virgin’s blood as if it was water from the Gods. When daylight broke through the night screams and tears we heard throughout the nearby village of the maiden. Blood covered the woods and the villagers’ houses. All that was left of the maiden was her head which sat on display on the village stage. The village swore vengeance on the murderous act from the beast. They searched the woods until they found a cave that echoed with despair and murder. Inside the cave the beast was dormant. The villagers captured the beast without any trouble bow and arrows. The beast still in a deep sleep was then tied to a stake and put on display in the village. A man yelled out that the beast would be killed once the moon shined in the sky. As soon as dusk the beast awoke in agony and screams. The villagers watched as the beast struggled to get free from its binding. “BURN THE BEAST” the villagers chanted and cheered. A man walked to the beast with a torch and lit the beast on fire. The beast screamed and cried as its fur began to burn and its skin began to melt away. A little girl hid behind door that was ajar watching the beast. The beast transformed breaking free from the fiery hell massacring hundreds of villagers leaving just one behind the little girl. The newly transformed beast walked into the fire he disappeared into the night.

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Neuvième Fable

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poem

Neuvième Fable

Neuvième Fable

  

Tragic Love

  

Internet Love

  

L'amour pour les brebis ont des yeux est la même que iff nous wed.

Les sentiments qu'elle me donne ne sont jamais remplis d'effroi.

Mais rien ne peut rosée, elle me ferait jamais vouloir liquidation morts, mais la vie à l'amour qu'ils font le temps de vie au lieu. Eye pourrait marcher les couloirs de la mémoire et de vous déprimé ou des yeux pourrait devenir une religieuse coupable dans le plaisir et repos dans le couvent jusqu'à ce que la mort peut nous part de rosée de la mort peut donner mais ce qui me reste de l'amour. Comment un homme peut obtenir si excitée un peu au point vert en quelques clics de souris, puis une zone de chat blanc froid. L'encre n'est jamais humide sur papier mye frisolée encore là, il est son amour. Quand elle me sourit oeil sourire quand elle fronce les sourcils yeux pleurent une rivière de la stuffins conservés dans tout repose autochtones découlant de faire une faute de la mort semblent quelque peu à écrire les mots à la mandé coeur s'écarter de s'inquiéter et de malheur et de prendre le tout nouveau départ Et bientôt tout ça fonctionne pour l'amour. Blanche-Neige, elle a mangé la pomme, puis est tombé à s'endormir rapidement mais Charlax venu à l'embrasser et à vivre son éveil. Prince Charlax bons baisers.

En direct sur le ruisseau la pêche de libellules dans une maison de l'amour. Mending coeur de charme. Faire l'amour dans le coeur. Mye neige blanche tortue pookie pochoucntous amour mon amour mon internet thrall. Nous pouvons avoir tout juste à tenir sur mes namme et de l'amour.

Les chercheurs ont maintenant prouvé que l'amour peut réparer un cœur brisé.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

EN FRANCE (heheh)

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The First Fable of CharlaX

The First Fable of CharlaX

The First Fable of CharlaX



A Falcon Cry





The Falcon Cries:

He spreads his wings in vain attempts to dry

He tells me once in a whistle WHY?

Why cannot we fly? When will the rain let up and let me in the air?

When will the water stop to drop on feathers so wet there?

The Falcon Cries:

A mournful sound so loud in quiet of early morn

His claws dug deeper in the branch to keep from being torn

Away from perching in the storm

His sharpened beak at work to smooth his feathers

He was using extra care no longer talking just to me his only whistle

Told me many things



The Falcon Cries:

We disagreed with all the rain both the Falcon and the eye.

Why can't we fly?

Eye could clasp the bird to bosom and dry his feathers there

A bird so wild and wonderful so hurt

With all my tears for the Falcon Cry.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

there was a real bird
not a chirp
it was a whistle
in the rain

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the eyes of Asher

In the night she walked alone,

the forelorn, grey-eyed Asher,

and stones, they tore the petticoats

and stockinged shins of Asher.

The snow, it fell,

so soft and white,

upon the head of Asher!

And oh, the wind,

it bit and wailed,

o'er the eyes of Asher!



She was born on winter's eve,

the sweet but forelorn Asher.

At summer's end, she found a love;

he called her "darling Asher."

Until autumn,

when all things die,

as well as lovely Asher!

She wanders still.

Alone, she wails,

and weeps--these eyes of Asher!

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Yule

Folder: 
Folklore

Yule,

The cold winter solstice.

The ancient feast of midwinter.

We no longer make human sacrifice.

Or festively slaughter a boar.

To ensure the summer’s return,

We sacrifice far more.

Wealth and sanity, gone.

In the shopping and feasting frenzy.

Which some of us call fun.

This shallow, commercial, nativity.

This fusion of Pagan feast,

With the birth of Christianity,

Hijacked by the shopkeeper,

Has become a vile obscenity.

Celebrate your feast, as you will.

I’ll make no human sacrifice.

As for the boar,

For him,

It’s just too bad!

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Féile Na Marbh – The Feast Of The Dead

Folder: 
Folklore

Féile Na Marbh, say it softly, if you must,

Never out loud, for these words have power,

Spoken at Samhain the dark festival.

The power to open the doors of hell.

Releasing the shadows, better left dead.

But who now can speak the words to close them?

The feast is upon us Oidhche Shamhna.

The harvest won, once ended with slaughter.

Three days feast the dead, three more for the quick.

Bone Fires lit the pagan sky, cattle bones.

And the bones of slaves taken in battle.

A burden in the dark, half years, long night.

Burned alive in great whicker cages.

Such fires still burn in England. The traitor,

Figure of fun, burned in effigy.

We fight the dark festival with humour.

Or is it a surrender, pagans all?

Trick or treat, Halloween, All souls eve.

Martinsmass, Guy Fawlkes Night, All saints day.

Whatever tradition you hold sacred.

The Celtic wheel of the year rolls on.

Unchanging, as it has for millenia.

And we all roll with it or are crushed.

My offered advice, avoid darkness,

Bring your family together in light,

Stay close to the fire, feast, and frolic.

Revere and remember kindly your dead,

They look on in longing in the twilight.

Together the shades can do us no harm.

Nor; divert, pervert, confuse, or kill us.

Frustrated the damned return to hell.

While we all live on and breath the sweet air,

And look forward to the next Celtic feast.

But this you already knew, we all do!

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The Mercy Of the Norns (The Wyrd Sisters)

Folder: 
Folklore

There I beheld the Norns, sisters spinning.

By the bright bubbling life spring, Urdr’s well.

Their garn, silken stuff of death and madness.

Thread of nightmare. Tireless they spin our fate

Below soaring Ygdrassil, great world tree.

Urdr, Verda and Skuld, Jötnar spawned.

Graceful, lissom, skilled in art and war.

Valkyrie maidens proud, Odins guard.

Without mercy they weave our web of doom

And when they pull my chord, I dance or die.

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Náströnd (The Corpse Strand)

Folder: 
Folklore

I beheld the dark hall

Far from the realm of the sun

On Niflheims cold shore

The grim doors open to the ice wind

Cold gripped my soul

Walls woven of serpents

The corpse strand

Drips with venom

Here stalk the damned

Their flesh torn by wolves

Eternal they wade the cold rivers of poison

The murderer the perjurer the adulterer

Until Ragnarök and beyond

For all of time

Playthings of Nidhöggr

The great vampire serpent

Who gnaws the roots of our world

Grim torment

But I sink further

For I am truly damned!

Is that enough?

Would you know more?

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