Ahh 'ello
It's just me your friendly neighborhood spi..gah someone in this forum already uses that. -_-;; damn me for being late. Damn you Chris. Well not really. I wouldn't want to damn myself, and Chris is too nice a guy *grins*
Ahh well. On with this mad and ridiculous farce of a show I s'pose. As I was saying, it's just your friendly Tygerofdanyte, tyger for short, actually. WEll the gist of it all is, i'm back again with another little piece I like to call..
It's just me your friendly neighborhood spi..gah someone in this forum already uses that. -_-;; damn me for being late. Damn you Chris. Well not really. I wouldn't want to damn myself, and Chris is too nice a guy *grins*
Ahh well. On with this mad and ridiculous farce of a show I s'pose. As I was saying, it's just your friendly Tygerofdanyte, tyger for short, actually. WEll the gist of it all is, i'm back again with another little piece I like to call..
The Word and its Troubles
Terribly atrocious
is what the word is.
Neither Precocious
nor sacred this.
Poet Khayyem knew this lot.
He said, "A word written is written.
Erased it is not.
Neither dissolved nor bitten."
Words left unsaid
may never be utter'd
but somehow on surface it's fed.
No matter if letter-sober or symbol-slurred.
The kurals of the Tamil poet
Tiruvuvlar are each but words seven.
Read by people of different mindset.
Yet present after an eon and 'leven.
Words first were tokens of paternal love
passed down from father to son.
Now word on paper, just like a hand in a glove.
The written leaves tradition outdone.
The written word is first and foremost atrocious.
But if not for its presence, we are left in the dark.
For in the minds and heart of its user, it is truly precocious.
The user the writer and its word are but song and lark.
is what the word is.
Neither Precocious
nor sacred this.
Poet Khayyem knew this lot.
He said, "A word written is written.
Erased it is not.
Neither dissolved nor bitten."
Words left unsaid
may never be utter'd
but somehow on surface it's fed.
No matter if letter-sober or symbol-slurred.
The kurals of the Tamil poet
Tiruvuvlar are each but words seven.
Read by people of different mindset.
Yet present after an eon and 'leven.
Words first were tokens of paternal love
passed down from father to son.
Now word on paper, just like a hand in a glove.
The written leaves tradition outdone.
The written word is first and foremost atrocious.
But if not for its presence, we are left in the dark.
For in the minds and heart of its user, it is truly precocious.
The user the writer and its word are but song and lark.