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Author Topic: Santharia  (Read 998 times)
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Rayne (Alýr)
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« on: 25 April 2004, 21:20:00 »

If you've just begun developing at Santharia, don't read this poem.

Lately I've been battling with a lot of my emotions toward Santharia as a whole, and I've had to face a lot of things that I didn't think I would ever have to deal with at this point in my Santharian Development career, but that I am, nonetheless. It's been rather diffciult to come to terms with things that I have to come to terms with in order to continue developing and participating in Santharian and the Santharian world.

This is not a poem I intend to go up on the site. It's more of a healing poem, to really get out everything. Maybe some of you have felt this way, maybe you haven't, but at least it's here now.

I apologies in advanced if anyone's hurt or offended by this poem. That was not my intention.

Rhyme sceme: ababcdecde
Meter: rough imbic pentameter
(Form copied from Keats's "Ode to a Nightgale", "Ode to a Grecian Urn")


My wayward heart is light again, the vale
Where river murmurs soft thy rippling song,
Reminds me of thy name. And each leafy sail
That journeys with the lazy brook, pulls along
My mind through vague and distant memories
Of when my life was not so dim and gray
As Grothar’s clouds; When Baveras’ tide
Seemed closing on the shore where now it flees.
When bright, injerá’s zenith shone her rays
As now she dips, grows pale, and starts to hide.

I sit here now, beside this modest stream
That, flowing, giggles, gurgles, talks to me
Of how my tarnished heart lived in a dream,
Of love, of hate, of if it made me free
Or if it merely kept me like a bird,
A small Aelireal, within a cage.
Oh, sweet that drowsy drug that numbed my pain,
My senses; made my world unseen, unheard—
Where, ignorant, I stood a knowing sage
And how I struggled! Oh what stress! What strain

All for a world that wasn’t e’en my own:
A place that does not breathe, that does not live!
No dragons fly, no seeds are truly sown
For nothing grows. It takes but does not give
At all to me who helped create its form—
But, Oh! To nothing I brought only love
In hopes that I, dumb wretch, would be returned
My gift in equal depth. I faired the storm
And heavy wounds, but nothing came thereof
And so, by such extended time, I learned.

Those hours of my youthful life for nought
But desolation, disappointment; Tears
For what I could not change- what sought,
I could not find among the wasted years.
Sweet Brook! Ist thou mimicking quiet cries?
Or dust thou cryest for my lonesome plight?
Thou dust not know, endearing little stream,
Why still, ashamed, I lower down mine eyes.
For I, though seen the truth, the knowing light,
Admit, despite it all, that I still dream.

Oh, cruelest place that I should ever know
I love thee better than what truly is,
Believed in thee, believed that thou could grow
And end up mine, what always would be his.
A piece of you to fill my weary soul
To quell the shaking of my nervous bones
To keep my mind from noticing the chain
And for to sleep, some name to gently toll.
So small- just something of my very own
To know the tears, the wounds, were not in vain.

Thy trees in dazzled colors, painted red,
And green and Korwyn golds. Myself I made
In hopes thy cold unseeing eyes might shed
Thy favor, thy light, but still I stood in shade.
In dirt and mud I sculpted from the land
That was not mine, and grew sweet fruit
And whispered only loving words. I served
To make thee flourish with these very hands
Yet was denied returns. The very shoot
I tendered, but the product not disserved!

Thy lovely moon and sparkling stars, thy night
Runs softly through my hair as though thou art
As real as life as though thy brilliant light
So truly touched my lips, my aged heart;
As though the song of glitras truly grace
The darkwind’s mystic course. As though the roar
Of dragons echoes from Tandala’s Peaks
And within Sharadon the shingars truly chase
Prietas; brilliant Haloens can soar
And hobbit wine can blush my pallid cheeks.

And yet so well I know, with dark forlorn
That there is nothing really there for me.
Determinant and fake, on lies was sworn
Those promises I mean to keep to thee.
But, Ah, my weary heart does make me smile
As here I sit beside this gentle rill
In still reflection, so serenely numb.
And in this lovely glade will stay awhile
To sigh in knowing that I love thee still;
Both what thou art, and what thou shalt become.

-Rayne Avalotus


"There is much misjudgment in the world. Now, I knew you for a unicorn when I first saw you, and I know that I am your friend. Yet you take me for a clown, or a clod, or a betrayer, and so I must be if you see me so. The magic on you is only magic and will vanish as soon as you are free, but the enchantment of error that you put on me I must wear forever in your eyes. We are not always what we seem..." -Schmendrick the Magician, The Last Unicorn
Coren FrozenZephyr
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« Reply #1 on: 26 April 2004, 02:23:00 »


Rayne, this truly is a very sentimental poem! It almost made me sob... I especially liked  the imagery and how you tied all those Santharian things together. I just hope I too will be able to write so well one day... and know, no - be so Santharianized

But hey! Don't cry my little elf, for - like you've told me once, every cloud has its silver lining. :pet  

All hail master poet, magic, beastiary, herbarium mistress along with a countless titles my foggy brain cannot list!  :worship  ;)  :worship

PS: If you have the time, or rather whenever you have the time, please send an im to me. There is something I'd like to talk to you about. I think it may help a little.

You know we'll always be there as your fellow Santharians. I'm glad that you had the courage to sort of empty out. So smile little elf, and enjoy Injera's caressing touch on your heart.

Orio'lilith enk-raem shar'ath-zlar

Please do take care.


"Everything should be as simple as possible and not simpler." Albert Einstein

"Is he allowed to do that?"
"I think that comes under the rule of Quia Ego Sic Dico."
"Yes, what does that mean?"
"'Because I say so', I think."
"That doesn't sound like much of a rule!"
"Actually, it's the only one he needs." (Making Money by Terry Pratchett)
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