Let there be no more disturbance and mightful gods descend on swamps and angels in the shining armours reveal the ways of weirdest course for those who seek the final answer; Let there be miracleous rhy, no one recall previous times and nothing be atop of other, let every house have its garden and rope swings on apple branch...
From the terrible Russian (me) into terrible English (my). The only my piece i seem to be able to translate... probably messed it up, though. original: max-ks.livejournal.com/120343.html
Nice. Interesting differences between the Russian and the English variants. I like both endings, though. Really good.
Let there be no more disturbance and mighty gods descend on swamps and angels in the shining armors reveal the strangest of the ways for those who seek the final answer; Let there appear miraculous rye, no one will now recall the past and nothing shall supremacy attain, let every house have its own garden and rope-swings on an apple branch...
Ah. Mea culpa. Poetry can't stand the test of stalkership anyways. A Stalker rather appreciates and uses poetry than adores it. Stalkers don't write poems, they rhyme guides for others. I feel so far from it.
Post by The Ferret on Sept 11, 2006 6:19:58 GMT -5
Maybe it's people around who think a Stalker's life is poetic...
The Stalker doesn't write poetry, neither lives it... he emanates it, and imbues reality with it to an unconscious level... if he attempts to catch poetry in spoken verses, he just gives us a mere chance to understand the mutated reality he created.
Last Edit: Sept 11, 2006 6:20:36 GMT -5 by The Ferret
He emanates reality that is poetic by its inner nature, i'd say... Good thought, Ferret, can't help but agree. It reminds me an idea of old russian religious philosophy; it was stated, every man keeps reality from falling apart by commiting acts of truth and beauty.