Post by StaolDerg on Feb 11, 2023 3:57:48 GMT -5
This shit is genuinely cringe as fuck.
You are warned.
I wrote this at 12:54 and I should really be asleep
The winds blew across the sorghum fields last night,
Disturbing the boughs of the trees,
Blowing southwest.
And my thoughts drifted with them back home,
Where the mountains glitter
And my home rests upon the river.
In the spring, the coasts are calm,
And the little boats are the stars of the day,
Dotting upon the sea.
The warm air of the deserts,
Gliding gently beneath my wings.
Little birds swoop among the trees below,
Following new roads that bring them south,
Chirping and singing to the kind rising sun.
Gently do the flocks nest among the trees,
And fill the air with song.
Spring brings the gracious branches to bloom,
And ten thousand blossoms burst into color.
Tenderly do they sprout, but brilliant do they glow,
Fragile, beautiful, temporary little things.
They spiral to the ground in a shower of color.
The little birds awake in the morning,
And with a firm tug they bring the flowers
To their nest, and seat them in their nests.
Countless twigs are slipped and added,
To provide for the little eggs within.
Summer is too warm, and the birds fall sick.
Some leave, some flee, some die.
They ruffle bothered feathers,
And dig paltry bounties.
A drought sets in.
Thirsty, the birds descend to the banks of the lake,
And there they sate their wanting thirst,
But devilish are the cats in the reeds,
And so a flight perishes.
The birds scatter, wild.
As fall comes, the skies fall.
Heavy are the showers, louder are the storms,
Little birds cower and shelter their hatchings,
Many take to the sky, hoping to escape,
And the flick never hears their songs again.
The end of the storms leave cold skies,
And those who remain flee north,
Hatchlings clutched to their chests.
Their old nests should stay not empty:
New flocks will reside there someday.
Winter but follows the flock north though,
And bitter is the cold.
Colder is the sleet and hail,
That bleeds through their feathers.
Huddled are the birds.
They shiver, their calls quiet.
The hardy berries feed them,
But so too do they feed wolves and hawks who hunt them,
And so they remain, quiet.
Cold, hungry, and songs are left unfinished.
My wings swoop, and I descend,
But I am too strange of a bird,
Too unknown,
And the birds flee from me.
For I appear too much like a hawk.
Forlorn, I watch them-
And they me-
And wonder I as they drift into canopies obscure,
If they will accustom.
-Home, by an anonymous Elenrian studying in Lusatia.
Disturbing the boughs of the trees,
Blowing southwest.
And my thoughts drifted with them back home,
Where the mountains glitter
And my home rests upon the river.
In the spring, the coasts are calm,
And the little boats are the stars of the day,
Dotting upon the sea.
The warm air of the deserts,
Gliding gently beneath my wings.
Little birds swoop among the trees below,
Following new roads that bring them south,
Chirping and singing to the kind rising sun.
Gently do the flocks nest among the trees,
And fill the air with song.
Spring brings the gracious branches to bloom,
And ten thousand blossoms burst into color.
Tenderly do they sprout, but brilliant do they glow,
Fragile, beautiful, temporary little things.
They spiral to the ground in a shower of color.
The little birds awake in the morning,
And with a firm tug they bring the flowers
To their nest, and seat them in their nests.
Countless twigs are slipped and added,
To provide for the little eggs within.
Summer is too warm, and the birds fall sick.
Some leave, some flee, some die.
They ruffle bothered feathers,
And dig paltry bounties.
A drought sets in.
Thirsty, the birds descend to the banks of the lake,
And there they sate their wanting thirst,
But devilish are the cats in the reeds,
And so a flight perishes.
The birds scatter, wild.
As fall comes, the skies fall.
Heavy are the showers, louder are the storms,
Little birds cower and shelter their hatchings,
Many take to the sky, hoping to escape,
And the flick never hears their songs again.
The end of the storms leave cold skies,
And those who remain flee north,
Hatchlings clutched to their chests.
Their old nests should stay not empty:
New flocks will reside there someday.
Winter but follows the flock north though,
And bitter is the cold.
Colder is the sleet and hail,
That bleeds through their feathers.
Huddled are the birds.
They shiver, their calls quiet.
The hardy berries feed them,
But so too do they feed wolves and hawks who hunt them,
And so they remain, quiet.
Cold, hungry, and songs are left unfinished.
My wings swoop, and I descend,
But I am too strange of a bird,
Too unknown,
And the birds flee from me.
For I appear too much like a hawk.
Forlorn, I watch them-
And they me-
And wonder I as they drift into canopies obscure,
If they will accustom.
-Home, by an anonymous Elenrian studying in Lusatia.