Momowords

Tell me your love is not cruel.
You needn’t – it does not exist.
Against you, I must constantly duel
But am shrouded by mist.

The mist around your heart,
It lies, it deceives.
You are a work of art,
Which my heart perceives
As love and devotion.
You hold a king’s power,
Your beauty is your throne
Raising you up – tall as a tower.

Tell me, can I ever change the path,
My soul has set for my coming years?
You needn’t – I can always count on your wrath,
To make my heart spill tears.

(Just to clarify, that was a partial rewrite of a previous poem I posted here titled “A King’s Throne Is As Cold As His Heart”)

You are brighter than all moons,
Your clothes as black as the runes
Decorating your skin – clear as the pale night.
I am able to find my way, guided by your witchlight.
Oh the people you’ve saved, the things you’ve destroyed.
You saved me from myself and filled up the void
Growing in my empty heart. By the angel,
I owe you my life, son of Raziel.
Your touch makes the power of your stele dim.
I am yours as you are mine, dear Nephilim.

Before, we were a book without a word.
As my magic drew you in,
Your runes put a spell on me.
Now, we are as limitless as the world.

For this, my dear, is my favourite combination:
Your hair; as black as the night sky,
Your eyes; as blue as the sea.
And you, my dear, are the epitome of perfection.

Where we now stand, you stood.
I was lonely, when you found me,
You were lost, when I found you.
We are one, Alec Lightwood.

Ton regard répare mon coeur brisé en morceaux
Alors que ce sont tes mots qui l’ont brisé ainsi.
Quel hypocrite es-tu pour te faire voir si beau
Alors que c’est ton visage qui me rend ainsi?

Why do you no longer laugh?
What happened to my sunshine
Whose ray could light up a path
In my hopelessly lost mind.
Your touch is not as before;
It soothes my worries no more.

Your eyes are full of regret,
I pray I am not its source.
It was not there when we met;
T’was when life took its course
That you lost faith, faith in me,
For this is my tragedy.

Or, tu ne ris plus,

Tu ne danses plus, ne chantes plus;

Tu me sembles perdue.

Le doux bruit constant de pages qui tournent dans un livre,
Nos yeux absorbés par l’histoire et ses conflits,
Les rêves des personnages que nous voulons poursuivre;
Voici ce qu’est un livre qui raconte un récit.

Comme c’est étrange, le livre a un pouvoir ultime;
Il est tout-puissant, il contrôle nos émotions,
De la volonté de l’auteur nous sommes victimes
Notre vie à jamais changée par ses créations.

En lisant tard le soir, on devient plus sensibles;
Leurs pensées resonnent dans notre esprit tel des cloches.
Nous connaissons leurs propos les plus horribles,
Leurs rêves les plus beaux – des personnages nous sommes proches.

De leurs joies nous rions, leurs tristesses nous pleurons.
C’est dans notre monde qu’est plus crucial le roman
Que l’univers réel dans lequel nous vivons;
Ce sont les histoires qui rendent ces siècles plus vivants.

Is being human physical, psychological or both? If an android could feel emotions such as happiness and sadness as a human can, would it make said android human? For example, would pressing the off switch be considered murder if they can experience fear and therefore fear of death?

“Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?”

We are human,
We breathe, think and feel.
We all experience confusion,
Who decides if it is all real?
What if someone invents
An android, an automaton
That can feel emotions and sentiments,
Is that not a human phenomenon?
They look the same outside,
Perfectly constructed,
Feel the same inside,
So well invented,
Experience joy and pain,
Laugh and grieve,
Their tears lost in rain.
It would be hard to perceive
Such a small difference
Between birth and creation;
Is it not our experience
That makes us human?

Falling heavily from high in the sky,
The shock! Inexplicable suddenness!
Receiving atoms of dust in the eye,
Disrupting what should have been peacefulness.
In a forest full of beautiful plants,
That have been burned down to hard black ashes,
What with the ground shaking, trees tipping, chants
Of war and fights being sung, loud crashes…
Quick! Duck! Hide! Just hide! Again it’s the shells!
All were thrown into chaotic panic,
We reacted fast, soon ringing of bells,
All were not so fast, all were not so quick,
And with the sound of wailing alarms,
Two do not make it in time to live,
I see one explode in front of me, arms
On the left, head at my feet, no time to give.
I run as fast as my legs allow it,
Mud on my shoes, dirty blood on my hands,
Away from all the bloodshed and conflict,
Not realising I carry war plans,
Preventing war for a little longer,
For war is not any way to ceasefire,
It only makes us all so much weaker,
To encourage our loved ones to die.

 
“My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.” – Wilfred Owen, Dulce Et Decorum Est

Like a balloon pushed to its limits,
I’ll burst one day,
And no one will be able
To do anything about it.
And I hope I hurt
The one blowing me up,
But I’m so scared to pain
The one holding me back.