Станислав Кюлджиев – A Song To Hail Thy Gentle Frame

Станислав Кюлджиев прави своя поетичен дебют в „Отвъд кориците“. За нас е огромно удоволствие да представим на високия читател неговите стихове на извисен английски. Enjoy!

Where Hope and Daylight Die

“Someone else always has to carry on the story.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien

So it was written and sait it was thus,

And shackles spread shadow o’er dawn,

While Darkness in silence turns to discuss,

Gone is the petrichor, you too shall be gone.

Stunted are trees in their echoes forlorn,

A maiden nestled in her lofty dream,

Sings to her infant yet to be borne,

While tears descend upon ash in sorrowful gleam.


But where there is shadow, so too shall it cease,

To welcome thee, blossoming spring,

When thou shalt bury thy deceased,

And your buds shall violently wring.


The firmament shall reflect in clear waters,

The west wind sings of spirits left to lie,

While readers retell thy story under bowers,

And remember, when hope and daylight used to die.


A Song To Hail Thy Gentle Frame

Fair Lady of the East! Thou hast longed to know

There – hung upon thy lofty tomb,

With tresses on the fitful breeze aflow,

Thou bearest vice – a deepening wound.


O! Lady of the Sea – long hath the world silenced thy cries,

Mock’d thy purity – an essence divine,

Long hath it severed those fruitful ties,

And plotted against thee, with words asinine.


Not thus was thy voice in Ancient days mute among the throng

When poets sung of thee in rhyme and in song,

Their echoes carried forth by the kindling summer wind,

And from their hail, vile thoughts thou effortlessly dimm’d.


O, grieve no more! For melancholy doth not, but ill-suit thy frame.

O, grieve no more! For I, and only I, shall grant thee with a reply.

O, grieve no more! Thou shan’t wither beneath the Howling Stars!

O, grieve no more! For if one heart throbs higher in its sway,

Thou shalt realize, that thy songs wert not in vain!


Confession

God! Whom dwelleth in this cloister dim, omnipresent as an apple tree.

Why didst thou abandon me?

Have thou no compassion for thy faithful creed?

For upreared art my limbs in praisal to thee; and my eyes overflow with salty waters, akin to restless seas.

Yet, once more thou declineth my imperfect plea; and a resounding, yet silent laughter permeates thy cross-stained halls;

Wherewith thou promised chastity behind thy cobbl’d walls!

But how oft have thou delighted in my internal plight!

How oft have thou crowned my mortal temple with thorns that once served thee in redeeming flight!

Hearken to thine own father, ye sadistic, worthless shade!

Thou art not my Lord, thee whom humanity carved in human shape;

Nor art thou a refuge for a wearied mortal soul;

Thou deity whose name is wrought in control!

Henceforth I shan’t seek solace in thy perfidious script;

And no more shalt I abide to thee; nor praise thee or peril in this illusory crypt!

Instead, I have found a new passage to earthly Heaven – ’tis but human to seek guidance, for the soul and mind create a Hell of Heaven.

Witness! I decline into temptation, clouded by the shape of thine creation;

For to live is to dwell in pleasure and to experience it is the greatest treasure!


Rosenrot

Youth! The sole image that the senses soothes, and invigorates temptations on a night of restless dreams.

The word that makes an elder’s heart seem as though to fret – wherewith to utter sought redemption by martyrous death.

Thee they deemed wild rose red, blooming, a garden of withering buds – And thee with all thy thorns in arbitrary sequence, tempted me into the garden with an iron rod; to bleed until I bleed no more, lest to thy kiss I shall become a sod.

I plucked thee up from the alien soil, and with soft, tender-taken breath, relieved thee from your mortal coil.

Oh, what ecstasy! What delightful aroma nestles underneath thy scarlet plumage!

‘Tis not through envy that I picked ye up; nor with malice rummaged I thy ripening breast

– ‘Twas in succession of a maddening plot! Residing in the walls of Notre Dame, and remains unsung in lips to tremble nevermore; or in a love-stricken knight of old, whose tales have spread – seldom heard, often wept – trembling to adhere to the one that he adores.

Adores! A word of passion none can vanquish. But many have witnessed the decline – of gallant men in wholesome shine; or of poets in their pages writing „Forever thine!“

– And so shall you too die!

I hold thee in my wrinkling palm, as though coursing through my veins is the ebb of a beckoning tide; as though your thorns shall seethe underneath this pale hand of mine – and live forevermore!

Thou art not worthy of this garden, illustrous flower, thou belong to me!

Thy world is cruel, ye blossoming rosebud but fear not, for I shall rob the Earth of its most beloved seed! The seed of youth that lies in thee.

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