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Literature Text
The spinning wheel turns round and round -
She listens to its whirring sound
and dreams of summers yet unfound
as she pulls the fine white thread.
The swans fly silent through the sky -
they set their wings to land nearby.
She dare not stop to sing or sigh
with the curse upon their head.
The loom clicks as the shuttle flies
the tears fall silent from her eyes -
bespelled brothers take to the skies -
tears spot the loom's white shed.
Nettle linen she sews by day
though why she does she may not say -
or else the swans will go away.
Her hands are sore and red.
What will she say when the task is done
the last stitch made, the last thread spun
and her brothers stand man-shaped in the sun -
Will she scream the spell is dead?
This is based on the folk story, The Six Swans, where a young woman labors six years making shirts of nettle linen to break the spell that turns her brothers into swans by day. During this time, she may not speak at all; she is almost burned at the stake, but in the end, she saves her brothers
She listens to its whirring sound
and dreams of summers yet unfound
as she pulls the fine white thread.
The swans fly silent through the sky -
they set their wings to land nearby.
She dare not stop to sing or sigh
with the curse upon their head.
The loom clicks as the shuttle flies
the tears fall silent from her eyes -
bespelled brothers take to the skies -
tears spot the loom's white shed.
Nettle linen she sews by day
though why she does she may not say -
or else the swans will go away.
Her hands are sore and red.
What will she say when the task is done
the last stitch made, the last thread spun
and her brothers stand man-shaped in the sun -
Will she scream the spell is dead?
This is based on the folk story, The Six Swans, where a young woman labors six years making shirts of nettle linen to break the spell that turns her brothers into swans by day. During this time, she may not speak at all; she is almost burned at the stake, but in the end, she saves her brothers
Literature
The Lilies
Now lilies wilt in crisping pale
They float their petals in glass bowl
Of torrid ocean rushing stale
And nevermore a flower whole.
Come, drift with me on memory
When love was pure in ivory
Our dreams are stained with lusted red
A thorn is left in lovers' stead.
Literature
a sister's eyes
I think of them
and recall how wise
are the eyes of
my little sister,
always laughing-
wind whisperer
through outstretched
oceans of blue grass
surrounded by
rolling island dunes
and the stalks of
her crowning pale glory,
but her eyes
are the constant
changing of seasons-
the silver grey
of low-lying mists
that roll in at dawn
after the night
gives up its gems,
deepest sapphires,
to reclaim them when
she stirs from sleep
while I keep
clinging to her,
and I let myself
drift in her seasons
with eyes open,
feeling safe a while
in our single bed
Literature
Night
Tendrils of silky moonlight caressed the stars
Dazzling the beholds, and kissing the scars
Dancing, twirling, singing and laughing
Who knew the night could be so dashing?
Run with me child, let your nature break free
Scream with me child, scream with glee
Dont fall, or trip, dont let the world bring you down
Jump and kick, just dont frown
Peer openly to the clouded skies
Be curious about our own fatal demise
Run with me child, let your nature break free
Scream with me child, scream with glee
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A sister labors under a magic obligation to save her brothers - what will she do when the spell is broken?
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Comments35
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I got to say again, that is my most favourite work on the site, and that I must look through you're gallery more!
Truly, I have never said that before.
Truly, I have never said that before.