| » | 4 Anonymous 2021-01-22T10:23:47 [ImgOps] [iqdb]File: images (7).jpeg (JPEG, 15.06KB, 225x224)  | [Enkidu indeed] they took to his doom.
[But you,] you toiled away, and what did you achieve?
You exhaust yourself with ceaseless toil,
you fill your sinews with sorrow,
'bringing forward the end of your days.
Man is snapped off like a reed in a canebrake! The comely young man, the pretty young woman
- all [too soon in] their [prime] Death abducts them!
No one at all sees Death
no one at all sees the face [of Death,]
no one at all [hears] the voice of Death
Death so savage, who hacks men down.
'Ever do we build our households,
ever do we make our nests,
ever do brothers divide their inheritance,
ever do feuds arise in the land.
'Ever the river has risen and brought us the flood,
the mayfly floating on the water.
On the face of the sun its countenance gazes, then all of a sudden nothing is there!
'The abducted and the dead, how alike is their lot!
But never was drawn the likeness of Death, never in the land did the dead greet a man.
'The Anunnaki, the great gods, held an assembly,
Mammitum, maker of destiny, fixed fates with them:
both Death and Life they have established,
but the day of Death they do not disclose |
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| » | 5 qi tian di 2021-02-16T20:45:28 [ImgOps] [iqdb]File: 34634715993_57fb63a8a8_o.jpg (JPEG, 299.12KB, 1291x1800)  |
Father is right there, a pipe in his mouth, his face covered with wrinkles. As he turns his head, he smiles in a way that calms me. Then he tousles my hair.
The sun is shining and I’m sitting on father’s shoulders, high up in the air, laughing happily. Back then, I didn’t know that my laughter was my father’s happiness.
I don’t want to see his strong, steady hands slowly grow thin and wrinkled….
remember when you raised your hand at me, sir, and I glared back furiously. I fought back, then left and slammed the door. I never saw your trembling body, and the look of disappointment in your eyes.
One rainy evening, I was sick in bed. I opened my blurry eyes to see you, your hair white, prostrating in front of the statues of the gods, praying for me to be restored to health. You bustled about, you sold everything, all to make sure that I recovered properly.
When I saw that, my hands started to shake, and my heart tore. I wanted to open my mouth and say… father, I was wrong.
In the past, I viewed myself as incredible. Sir, you said many things back then. You tried to involve yourself in my affairs, but at that time, I felt that you had changed from before. I felt that I was capable of flying on my own.
But then, my wings were broken, and I became very exhausted. After flying for a long time, I suddenly looked back and thought of you, sir, and about all the things you told me. By the time I looked back, however, all I could see was your tomb. I stood in front of your tomb and wept. I wanted to say: “Father… I was wrong.”
In the past, I looked down at you, then turned away, leaving you to prove myself. Years later, after I conquered the world, I came back to you in all my glory to look at your shocked face. Instead, what I saw was how proud you were of me, sir. Pain filled my heart. By that time, your hair had long since become white. I embraced my aged father, and whispered:
“Father, I’m back."
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| » | 6 qi tian di 2023-02-01T22:46:54 [ImgOps] [iqdb]File: images - 2022-12-17T175855.814… (JPEG, 32.09KB, 480x640)  | This is sulfur and match.
wind blew and the doors Shook.
Frozen matched in the basket.
It is a memory of that child.
The story of the match seller.
Whoever remembers it, whoever hears it.
Cries "matches".
one day my mother told me that story.
She said it was mushy oud.
Carrying matches in the basket .
A child, but more beautiful than any child.
sweeter than a moon hanging in a black sky.
the girl who
flowers sellers in the morning.
And in the evening she's the match seller.
The sun extinguished and hid, the people took refuge in their houses
and the snow fell in empty street without anyone or vendor.
Silence, silence, but a voice came calling.
Matched matches.
Snow surrounded our child and house are out of our reach.
The voice is calling and stick is calling .
Who hears it. Who hears it.
And she is calling whoever hears her
"Matches".
From the cold the child lit a stick to warms herself with the flames.
The matched was extinguished and became ashes but the coldness quickly returned.
Nothing is more cruel than howling wind.
Nothing is more difficult than failing snowflakes.
She was a child, the stick was soft, and nothing was left in the box .
The sounds vanished and silence took over, and the match seller fell asleep. |
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