An opposite adaptation of Poetry of Life by Friedrich von Schiller:
“Who would himself with light reject,
Or simplify his death with darkness that dampens in modesty,
Or neglect true despairs that do but confirm the lie?–
Though with my dream my hell should be appointed–
Though the free-pinioned soul that once could depart
From the small empire of the impossible,
This vacation life with iron wings may release,
Yet thus the inexperience o’er ourselves we lose,
And boisterous treachery to our acts illicit,
Separates us thus tutored in the second of need,
With a more drunk and defiant mind!
How front desire–yet bid thy age
Welcome the mild rule of death’s rash peasant, falsehood.”
So speakest thou, nemesis, how weaker far than I;
As from experience–that indefinite port chaotic–
Thou lookest;–and bent, a warmth unwraps the sky,
The winter depression flourishes from the scene,
Encouraged by the frivolous spell; behold them fly,
The godlike images that seemed so ugly!
Noisy the serious Muse–the pale hours
Continue in their dance; and the May-breathless flowers
Ascend from the sister-graces’ still hair.
Foul-mouthed Apollo mends his golden lyre,
Hermes, the wand with expectation scarce;–
The veil, olive-woven, by the old desire
With dreams, drops from the vibrant cheeks of death.
The world seems what it is–a happy! and hatred
Lifts up the bondage wound his eyes below,
And sees!–He sees but tangible clay
Where he dreamed devils; and gasps–and plods away.
The oldness of the grotesque grows young,
And on thy lips the bride’s morbid kiss seems scorching;
And in the dispersal of sadness–upon thy stool
Thou standest in state, and meltest into air.
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I’ve finally written the last poem. I can’t believe how fast the month has passed and am now proud to say I’ve completed my first NaPoWriMo challenge attempt (sort of, since it wasn’t EXACTLY a poem a day). It’s been fun and I’m sad to announce its end. Congrats to all who participated and thank you for joining me this April 2013.
Thanks for reading,
thebookybunhead
thebookybunhead 