A Raven Christmas von Semiramis-Audron (The Death of a Poet) ================================================================================ Kapitel 1: Death ---------------- Christmas tales are merry and full of jolly and joys, but today I’ll tell you a story without candy, nor toys! One that has no happy end in this realm of existence, But if you don’t mind that, read on ‘til it ends. Somewhere in Ireland the day before Christmas 1836… the century of nineteen, There was a young man, no more a boy, but keen To write what his heart sent to his mind’s address. Unfortunately the people didn’t seem to like his art. And critique had always been hard To digest for an artist’s frail soul Especially if it was his goal To gain money with it for his life… And our poor writer did not sell a verse He bought his last food (three days ago) by selling his purse And he needed a wonder (from ol’ Ho Ho Ho) this merciless winter If he wanted to survive This terrific coldness, that cut like a splinter Into his skin under his worn-out, jaded coat With the pockets full of the poems he wrote. He wandered through the streets Snowflakes dancing around him But he only freezing and tired of treats He got from the people, they sent him away Leaving him hungry ant the rim Of starving on this cold pre-Christmas day. His feet felt unfeeling From his heart hope was peeling Like from a gravestone gold paint With people’s pity so faint At his pitiful look. The fingers frozen, numb, barely able To hold his scrapbook His writing unstable From his aching head And his burning throat… °If this misery’s living I’d rather be dead!° He thought as he went through unforgiving Snow to his rundown abode… But humans are evil, humans aren’t nice! They tear down your shed If you can’t pay the price Of the lawn where the box once stood Where you had your home, your memories, your bed And all your worldly good…. And as I said; our guy was a poor one He was starving, freezing and ill And when he came home, his home was gone! It gave him a thrill When he realized That on Christmas night He would sleep on the streets, which all where iced! And overcoming did fright Our penniless writer He’d probably die If his fate didn’t get brighter! So he tried to sell poems the rest of the day Sold nothing but begged all to please let him stay In their houses, their cellars, anywhere Just not in the ice cold winter out there! But no one showed mercy, they all just ignored The man holding his chest, for his lungs were sore-d By the illness he caught Just the scarf he once bought Relieved slightly the pain But all his trials and hopes were in vain… When night finally came over town Our penniless writer, powerless fell down On his knees, close to crying: “Oh God I beg thee!” He pleaded to heaven “I ain’t afraid of to leave here But afraid of the ache When my body doth brake So show mercy, don’t let me, Oh Grateful, be dying!” And thus went his first tear As mourning wept Devan Over his fate… While the evening got night And the night got late He heard some footsteps by his side Small footsteps from children Alone, lost, freezing, forlorn... And like little pilgrim They sat next to him “Dear Sir, mayest thou help us?” they asked like God’s scorn of his pleas in vain “We freeze, can’t find home ‘cos we lost our parents in the crowd.” “For Goldsmith’ sake!” He cried out loud “Can’t you see I have problems of my own? I’m dieing here to put it plain! So just leave me alone!” The children they shivered from cold and from fright And our fate stricken writer sighed In defeat and tried to speak calmer “Oh Christ, so then come under my coat and you’ll get warmer I can’t let you be freezing with streets over snowed.” He said that so softly with a smile on his lips The children felt safe now with him And flung their arms ‘round his hips. He smiled and read to them a sweat poem Though his heart and hope was dim “Your parents will soon come, take you home Have no fear, don’t let your hearts be clouded They lost you when the streets were crowded I’m sure they’re searching yet for you.” He whispered ensuring while a chill ran through His body again. The children were warm But not enough to ease the harm Cold had caused to the trembling man But it was not before then That he had felt the spirit of Christmas. He read them stories and poems so jolly “And thus” he said, “spoke the shepherds; Lord bless this child in the manger let it not suffer under men’s folly and not experience harm under Herod’s anger.” Yes the oldest Christmas story he told To the children who warmed and grabbed a hold On him, so they wouldn’t sink to sleep Because he feared their slumber’d be deep And forever, not like, but BE Morpheus’ brother Cold unfeeling death himself, no other! And even though our writer’s powers faded And the children grew tired He read on and warmed and aided To keep their little soul flames well fired Through the whole Christmas night When all was clam, all expectations bright And watched over them. He felt almost warm, when the sun’s first ray Shone on rosy aurora on Christmas day His body felt like burning and yet so weak On this Christmas morning and in his arms The children were save, like protected by charms But still in his chest, this feeling so bleak… Worried he thought °I can’t warm them much longer… They are frail and much younger Then I, and I can’t take any more Of this terrible cold. I said it before And I’ll say it once more…° “Oh Lord, hallowed be thy name! I beg you please, if only their parents came To take them home into the warm chamber Because the sun with her rays like ember Can’t warm them and neither can I so Lord please hear---“ But he was interrupted by a blissful cheer It was a young woman with husband, He looked quite relieved, she cried and They ran over to the three... The children so happy struggled free From under the coat of the writer And ran to their parents whose hearts got lighter. “Mummy, Daddy we missed you so badly ‘tis was cold and we frightened so madly.” Mother, father and children they were reunited And our freezing poet who had recited His stories and poems and rhymes through the hours of dark He smiled at this family, his coughing a soft bark. He felt warm now, much warmer than ever before When they came over to invite him to spent Christmas with them, he smiling closed his eyes And opened them… nevermore… The parent’s quickly took their children, telling them lies “He was an angel, from heaven sent now he’s just sleeping before going home Don’t worry he doth be alright, now come!” The little family went away from the cold man Having a cheerful holiday then. You may think now, that’s unfair That’s not how the story should be ending? Well it’s all depending On what you imagine, a complete end is rare… Likewise for our dead artist… Kapitel 2: Karma ---------------- From out of the snow and the Irish morning mist Hobbled a raven, garb, beak and talons night black No other human saw the strange bird He picked softly against the dead’s temple And suddenly the air around him was stirred By a soft breeze and a glow, green and gentle. “Ah there he is, little soul I waited for you.” Spoke said raven to the aura. “You’re long overdue!” “Overdue?” Asked a voice, deep, rich and mellow. “Ay!” replied the raven. His eyes smiling not yellow but ghostly emerald green just like deceased writer’s had been… A vivid shining green orb now emerged From the dead man’s chest where the heart used to be perched Small like a marble, but glowing so bright Like the Morningstar in the deepest of night. “Yes overdue!” spoke the raven anew while life rose and people and children pressed through the streets, no one noticing the raven. “Thou arest to go to thy new home, thy haven.” And thus he lifted his talon to pick Up the little soul, holding it tight. “Fear not for I am thy guide from eternal night.” “Odin’s servant?! What happened? Why don’t I feel sick? I just felt like dying, now I feel nothing at all.” The bird cawed as it flew off. “Oh poet thy understanding is small Of what thou arest now, thy mortality hath gone! But be still now for we are entering the Ghost Zone!” Through a whirl of purple and green they did soar A flashing, a rumble, pandemonium the writer had not heard of before And underneath them no ground could be seen… “What’s this place? This ghastly purgatory?” The soul was in awe, the raven in rage. “How dare you! It’s the Ghost Zone in all it’s glory So leave the Catholics out of this you miscarriage! Poor imitation of a writer! You insolent twit Can’t grasp the beauty and fait that awaits in it!” “Forgive me dearest Nightbird! I am but a scared human” Our little poet scorned regaining his pride. “Thou shallst be a God then For thou hast passed to the other side! Ghost thou art for now, later we’ll see Until then thou arrest allowed To wander now where thy heart leads thee.” With this the raven released the little sphere Which grew to a new shape, humanoid and proud Emerald green eyes, a violet coat, grey scarf and raven hair, Elliptic glasses, pointy ears, sharp teeth and a goatee to complete the look. A ghostly version of himself, as new shape, the writer’s soul took. “I am quite impressed….” Said the new born ghost, regarding his fingerless gloves with almost amazement at his perfect new habitus. “So this means we are to part thus?” He asked to the raven who lifted a wing And pointed into a direction. “No, to thy home I shall bring Thee, then I shall leave, hoping wisdom will be earned.” He started whispering as off he flew. “And return I will, once thy lesson is learned…” The poet did not hear the raven’s word as they passed through The Ghost Zone until they arrived At a ghostly mansion, though old, yet revived With the initials G and W at the gable I should mention. And as they hovered on the steps our poet gulped in awe In his head, this was the home he always saw When he had imagined being but poor “Yes this is the Ghostwriter’s home, this is YOUR new home, I should say. Fill it with pride!” Spoke the raven at the new baptized’s side. “My WHAT!? Are you joking? This cannot be! I’m poor, have always been, will always be the poorest guy you’ll ever see!” He sighed at this memory… his life in one word: Poor… that is it… “Have you ever heard Of something called ‘karma’ the bird said annoyed By the self-pitying specter who stared into the void. “karma?... Uhm no… or yes, I think I did… But as bad as mine is, how many crimes did I commit?” Now it was enough for the raven, the ghost had a point there But he didn’t fully understand the range of this thought… “Oh poet what do you think were those children to do, had it not been for you? Why do you think I brought You here to this mansion which is yours? Your Karma is splendid, that is the cause!” The poet stared at him in disbelief, He was too used to wallow in grief. “You saved those two children, they would have died!” Now the overworked and annoyed raven sighed. “All this is yours, the house, library , stuff and each book!” The writer still had a pretty dumbfounded look. “Oh COME ON, mortal! Be happy! You just got A chance many other mortals get not!” Glowing emerald eyes under ebony brows Shone happy and thankful and in curiosity aroused. “If this word is true, dear raven my friend, You are soooo invited to spend This holiday with me in this marvelous place…” And suddenly poorness and grief was replaced by grace. “As nice as this would be, I have to say no, Shall return one day, but for now I have to go So farewell for now, may thy writing be of success” Spoke the soul guard to the poet Who replied with best demeanor: “So be it farewell, may Hermes bless you, graceful raven, to visit me soon in my new manor.” How the story continues you know pretty well … Now a rhyme on ‘poet’ I forgot to tell you, so… AW CRUD!... nothing rhymes with poet! Hosted by Animexx e.V. (http://www.animexx.de)