Contact Angela Abraham - author of Descriptionari, AngelaCarolineAbraham@gmail.com for tuition in English.
'Twas balmy weather on the fool's gold path, the track that fashioned foes of friends. Though storms upon it lost their identity, how they did rage on all the same. "Twas a tyranny of the heart, dear lassie, that way that was no way at all. "Twas an extinguishing of the soul's hearth, dear laddie, and upon it none can rekindle the flame. Harken to this warning. Let it not meet a single sole. Upon it darkness is ever clothed in white, fur trimmed, eyes bright - demons as angels will come in twisted song. Day to night. Right to wrong. Dark to pseudo light. So traveller beware. Beware! For the bewitching hour hath begun!
'Twas balmy weather on the fool's gold path, the track that fashioned foes of friends. Though storms upon it lost their identity, how they did rage on all the same. "Twas a tyranny of the heart, dear lassie, that way that was no way at all. "Twas an extinguishing of the soul's hearth, dear laddie, and upon it none can rekindle the flame. Harken to this warning. Let it not meet a single sole. Upon it darkness is ever clothed in white, fur trimmed, eyes bright - demons as angels will come in twisted song. Day to night. Right to wrong. Dark to pseudo light. So traveller beware. Beware! For the bewitching hour hath begun!
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
We bathed in the summer wind, feeling it eddy-hug all that we are. Our bare arms were its pianos as it played keys in soft casades. Of wintry wind, it bore no resemblance. Of ice, it carried none. Instead, with fragrant notes that swirled, with the patience of aeons and love’s everlasting hope, it serenaded to the angel within.
We bathed in the summer wind, feeling it eddy-hug all that we are. Our bare arms were its pianos as it played keys in soft casades. Of wintry wind, it bore no resemblance. Of ice, it carried none. Instead, with fragrant notes that swirled, with the patience of aeons and love’s everlasting hope, it serenaded to the angel within.
Birthed from the silver flute, musical notes skipped into the universe as flattest stones upon mirrored lake top. Yet its radiating waves neither vanished nor diminished in a two dimensional plane. The waves as a sphere did travel, gaining momentum at ethereal speed, gaining light as a willing partner.
Birthed from the silver flute, musical notes skipped into the universe as flattest stones upon mirrored lake top. Yet its radiating waves neither vanished nor diminished in a two dimensional plane. The waves as a sphere did travel, gaining momentum at ethereal speed, gaining light as a willing partner.
Only the fingerprint of a fairy queen can make the magic flute sing. Without her, though it plays, its sound is the same as any other silver yard. Centuries have come. Centuries have gone. To the English heart it holds equivalence to the sword of Arthur. And so, when we heard its tune and felt its magical surge, we held our collective breath. Could it be true? Was this it? Had the fairy queen returned?
Only the fingerprint of a fairy queen can make the magic flute sing. Without her, though it plays, its sound is the same as any other silver yard. Centuries have come. Centuries have gone. To the English heart it holds equivalence to the sword of Arthur. And so, when we heard its tune and felt its magical surge, we held our collective breath. Could it be true? Was this it? Had the fairy queen returned?
Only the fingerprint of a fairy queen can make the magic flute sing. Without her, though it plays, its sound is the same as any other silver yard. Centuries have come. Centuries have gone. To the English heart it holds equivalence to the sword of Arthur. And so, when we heard its tune and felt its magical surge, we held our collective breath. Could it be true? Was this it? Had the fairy queen returned?
The flute sang to the stars until their deepest hearts did pulse. In return the heavens did not sing, yet poured as water into the valley and remained there as star-freckled blackest ink. This, my friends, is no legend of old, for I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it with my own hands. I swam in its perfect ambiance, for it was both warm and sweet. As I dived within the flute music returned and oxygen did inflate my lungs. My pilot light burned brighter, swelling my heart anew. The flute I played that day is with me still, a humble yard of silver, a 'cup and string' telephone that divinity chose to answer.
The flute sang to the stars until their deepest hearts did pulse. In return the heavens did not sing, yet poured as water into the valley and remained there as star-freckled blackest ink. This, my friends, is no legend of old, for I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it with my own hands. I swam in its perfect ambiance, for it was both warm and sweet. As I dived within the flute music returned and oxygen did inflate my lungs. My pilot light burned brighter, swelling my heart anew. The flute I played that day is with me still, a humble yard of silver, a 'cup and string' telephone that divinity chose to answer.
Within the antique flute the promise of centuries past, the promise of love's ever-flutter, suffocated in frozen brass. Its long silenced reed clung to eon's spittle as if old man time could reverse his tide. Tarnished, keys seized, it was reduced to little more than a pointless stick.
Within the antique flute the promise of centuries past, the promise of love's ever-flutter, suffocated in frozen brass. Its long silenced reed clung to eon's spittle as if old man time could reverse his tide. Tarnished, keys seized, it was reduced to little more than a pointless stick.
In dawn’s emboldening rays, the flute sleeps. All the dayshine hours it dreams, reed still, brassy keys at rest. Then, come the eventide, at light lip’s command, its dovish hoots are conjured forth. Night isn’t night as its notes resonate to fill the auditorium. With eyes wide shut, its sound transports us to the height of summer in every season.
In dawn’s emboldening rays, the flute sleeps. All the dayshine hours it dreams, reed still, brassy keys at rest. Then, come the eventide, at light lip’s command, its dovish hoots are conjured forth. Night isn’t night as its notes resonate to fill the auditorium. With eyes wide shut, its sound transports us to the height of summer in every season.
Slumped on age-bowed rails, was a train of deep set misery. It’s one dirt encrusted eye did dim at twilight’s howling hiss-command. It hunkered squat and low, for gravity had cowed it, lashing with wintry-whips. How it did moan! How its wheels did whine! How its soul rattled at bars skank-grim. In diesel bouquets, as burnt and morbid offerings, it crept in as the very death nell of mirth. Involuntarily I stepped away, stumbling almost to the ground. Around it all was cold and becoming colder still. Is this how it moved? Did it steal heat? Did it bring hearts to a hypothermic stutter-halt? It could not be a thing of this world, yet a ghost train, a spectre made of evil’s song.
Slumped on age-bowed rails, was a train of deep set misery. It’s one dirt encrusted eye did dim at twilight’s howling hiss-command. It hunkered squat and low, for gravity had cowed it, lashing with wintry-whips. How it did moan! How its wheels did whine! How its soul rattled at bars skank-grim. In diesel bouquets, as burnt and morbid offerings, it crept in as the very death nell of mirth. Involuntarily I stepped away, stumbling almost to the ground. Around it all was cold and becoming colder still. Is this how it moved? Did it steal heat? Did it bring hearts to a hypothermic stutter-halt? It could not be a thing of this world, yet a ghost train, a spectre made of evil’s song.
Icy rails whiplashed to the twilight ground, and from them grew shards of ice that sat up as cave-less stalagmites. The heavens lowered, stars erased, so low sat coal-charred clouds. The wind carried not the nightingale, yet a discord of insomniac crows born of vampire’s breath. The trees did crumble to ash, yet no fire did we see. No scent of burning did come. Then to the rails a ghost train was born, not fashioned in the usual way. It was scratch-slashed into the ether with jagged gouges of rough form. Scritch. Scratch. Slice. No Christmas train was this. No carriages of mirth would such a beast ever bring. No! No! This was the nightmare train. This was the rattler that bore dread’s very name.
Upon shoreline slumbered clouds too sleepy to make their way into the sky. The tide was their lullaby with its winged karaoke-choir. Squawk. Ah-ah! Ah ah! Squawk! Their never changing sea shanty did ring out. Then, as a timid drummer to this coastal band, came the clickety clack of the Via Rail. It would be several long breaths before its lights could battle the fog, yet wait, wait, wait… With each passing moment timidness gave way to bold strikes and the headlamps pieced the white-out with ease. Today was the day they’d booked it to stop here, at the GPS coordinates for, “Where the heck is that?” It’s a good name for an almost hamlet. Maybe we’ll call it that. And so the behemoth of steel slowed to an easy jog before coming to a stop.” All aboard! All aboard!” the train’s master did shout.
In a spectral shuddering cry, coldest metal wheels screech-smacked rails that were both chains and cage. It was one of those nights that imprisoned the sun. It was one of those nights that robbed its rays not for solace, yet for greed. It was one of those nights that sent a pseudo-dawn, a pseudo-dawn of unforgiving fluorescent harshness. The whole world was underground the day it rolled into every station. Peeling paint, shattered grime-smothered glass, worn out numbers so scratched and dim. From the doors came phantoms in well starched shadows, pressed, ironed, rustling. Clomp. Clomp. All around was a crowd of spectral jack-boots. The wind was not wind, yet whispers that twisted into almost-words. That train vanished only to arrive again and thus the night rolled on and on.
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