the satyr dance

Let me tell you a story, now here,
now here under the stars.

Now we are all sitting around that large fire,
the red soul of brave gods.

Night is wrapping our dreams with her darkness,
let her spirits amaze us.

And this liar who says to be a skilled bard
will now show he's not drunk.

Our man was also lying here,
onto these oak's fallen leaves,
thinking night was the time for romantics
to gaze these tall wonderful trees.

Softly notes were rising
from his flute's lovely tune
amusing poor bored owls,
just feeding whimsical dreams.

A sudden new chorus arouse;
joined our man's slow melody,
but now not soft neither gloomy;
night's not just for sugaries.

Weird animals
in a lustfulness circle;
horselike men,
demoniac goats.

Singing in euphoria,
dancing in inebriety,
hoping in hotness.

Drinking their soul,
drinking their spirit,
drinking their women,
drinking alcohol.

Our man was also lying here,
onto these oak's fallen leaves,
thinking night was the time for Dionysus
to exhibit hot sexual feelings.

Neither the purest man at universe
would be able to resist
our satyr orgiastic dance,
owls soon fell asleep.

Be sure that circle
was shortly filled
with our man in the middle;
madness, sex and sin.

And if you don't yet believe
this truthful decent man
pay attention to this circle
and see whether you are gonna dance.

the rider of the dawn

Once upon a well remembered time,
there was a quiet, distant land
where the wind had forgotten to blow
and the gaze of the gods had furtively gone.


Dreadful trees unsuccesfully tried to glance the sky
below that cinder coloured endless sheet,
unaware of the clouds' sudden slide away,
sadly crepitating wooden tears.


Despite that severe painful punishment
imposed by our angry stormy gods
hope was to come, clear with the sunrise,
along with horseshoes steps on the ground.


With the rise of the sun
the time had come
for the one to awoke,
the rider of the dawn.


It's enough to have such a brave man
riding quite a noble horse through our trees
to regard the beauty of the cinder forest,
the godforsaken land of our memories.


With the rise of the sun
the time had come
for the one to awoke
our sadly crying trees.


Once upon a well remembered time,
there was a quiet, distant land
where the wind has now returned to blow
and the gaze of the gods is staring with a moan.

the arrow wound

May you hear the song
about a handsome-fearsome male,
about the girls he seduced,
about the fears he inspired.


May all the kind men love him,
-their land always protected
by a fascinatingly charming creature.
May all the thieves do hate him,
-half an elf, half a human,
as half an eagle on the lookout.


May you be hearing this harp's unpretentious notes,
the strings plucked with scarcely -huh- quick fingers;
men, believe me when I say that
quicker were his fingers down his long bow's string,
faster the mortal arrow which tore the quiet air
- hardly ever seen by the unlucky bastard
whose neck would burst into dark blood
once he'd cut in front of this deadly avenging archer,
who would leave him that fatal elvish arrow wound.


May you now be afraid, you villager wise men,
but don't,
'cause that agile dooming hands are only guided
by our good-hearted justice god.


May you now not be afraid, you beautiful young girls,
but do,
'cause that agile desiring hands are also guided
by our lust-hearted sexual god.

the very beginning

nothing to say, nothing to share
(intended)
just easier for me to write thoughts out
(they're quite noisy inside)