(no subject)
Dec. 7th, 2006 04:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kyrasantae
I do not belong here.
Anyone who knows anything about her, however little, would have deduced this.
It is the faraway, empty gaze of her eyes, and the emotionless face often accompanied by a dipping of her head and a long, wistful sigh. It is the tired body slouching backwards in her chair, her hands fingering the cross at her chest as if in prayer, and a tear given birth by the corner of an eye.
She is lost in an endless void.
Her empty gaze stares into the past, to a time before the madness. She sees a time when she loved freely, a time when great things were made by - no, expected of - her. She sees a time when melodies danced from her fingers and black and white keys spoke on behalf of her lips.
But now the fingers no longer dance, and the lips must speak for themselves. The digits are frail and weak from years of misuse, and the keys make only a stuttering noise that barely resembles the beautiful whispers of sound they once made.
Now few ever hear the mutterings of her heart, for words alone are hopelessly not fit to convey them. Those who have heard them know the infinite torment within her.
In the madness she sought meaning in a cold, structured life, and found only despair. So terrible was this despair that the madness broke from her and she tried to flee from the despair. She prays for the days of greatness to return and carry her to freedom, for despair has taken her freedom captive.
My freedom lies in song, and in song alone.
She has nothing to offer in ransom, so she remains in despair, and a tear rolls down her cheek.
And despair tightens its grasp on her, pulling her further and further into the well of darkness, where silence reigns with failure at its side.
All she wants right now is to regain her grip on the last threads of freedom before they are taken away from her forever.
But this is a place where she does not belong, where her love has no true place, only places for the impostors. The impostors love not for freedom's sake but for some perverse and vulgar motive. They love not for beauty but for lust, and the voice of experience tells her this is so.
She cries out for her love, to which the impostors reply, "Beggars cannot be choosers: Love as we do or leave, for we will not hear you." She refuses, but she cannot leave.
And so she stares from her window - as she has daily for uncountable years - into the cold, dark night.
Anyone who knows anything about her, however little, would have deduced this.
It is the faraway, empty gaze of her eyes, and the emotionless face often accompanied by a dipping of her head and a long, wistful sigh. It is the tired body slouching backwards in her chair, her hands fingering the cross at her chest as if in prayer, and a tear given birth by the corner of an eye.
She is lost in an endless void.
Her empty gaze stares into the past, to a time before the madness. She sees a time when she loved freely, a time when great things were made by - no, expected of - her. She sees a time when melodies danced from her fingers and black and white keys spoke on behalf of her lips.
But now the fingers no longer dance, and the lips must speak for themselves. The digits are frail and weak from years of misuse, and the keys make only a stuttering noise that barely resembles the beautiful whispers of sound they once made.
Now few ever hear the mutterings of her heart, for words alone are hopelessly not fit to convey them. Those who have heard them know the infinite torment within her.
In the madness she sought meaning in a cold, structured life, and found only despair. So terrible was this despair that the madness broke from her and she tried to flee from the despair. She prays for the days of greatness to return and carry her to freedom, for despair has taken her freedom captive.
My freedom lies in song, and in song alone.
She has nothing to offer in ransom, so she remains in despair, and a tear rolls down her cheek.
And despair tightens its grasp on her, pulling her further and further into the well of darkness, where silence reigns with failure at its side.
All she wants right now is to regain her grip on the last threads of freedom before they are taken away from her forever.
But this is a place where she does not belong, where her love has no true place, only places for the impostors. The impostors love not for freedom's sake but for some perverse and vulgar motive. They love not for beauty but for lust, and the voice of experience tells her this is so.
She cries out for her love, to which the impostors reply, "Beggars cannot be choosers: Love as we do or leave, for we will not hear you." She refuses, but she cannot leave.
And so she stares from her window - as she has daily for uncountable years - into the cold, dark night.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Finnish translation
Date: 2006-12-28 11:40 am (UTC)Kuka tahansa, joka tietää hänestä jotain, olisi päätellyt tämän.
Se kaukainen, tyhjä ja lasittunut katse hänen silmissään ja ilmeettömät kasvot täydennettynä alas painetulla pääällä ja pitkällä haikealla huokaisulla. Se väsynyt keho retkottaen taakse hänen tuolissaan, hänen katensä sormeillen ristiä hänen rinnallan kuin rukoillein, kyynel nousten hänen silmäkulmastaan.
Hän on hukassa loputtomassa tyhjyydessä.
Hänen tyhjä katseensa tuijottaa menneisyyteen, aikaan ennen hulluutta. Hän näkee ajan jolloin rakasti vapaasti, ajan jolloin hän teki - ei, häneltä odotettiin, hienoja asioita. Hän näkee ajan jolloin melodiat tanssivat hänen sormistaan ja mustavalkoiset koskettimet puhuivat hänen puolestaan.
Nyt sormet eivät enää tanssi ja hänen pitää puhua omasta puolestaan. Sormet ovat heiveröiset ja heikot vuosien väärinkäytöstä. Koskettimet luovat vain änkyttävää ääntä, joka vaivoin muistuttaa sitä kaunista kuiskausta, jonka ne kerran loivat.
Nyt vain harvat koskaan kuulevat hänen sydämensä muminaa, koska sanat yksinään eivät mitenkään riitä sen välittämiseen. Ne, jotka ovat sen kuulleet, tietävät loputtoman kidutuksen hänen sisällään.
Hulluudessaan hän etsi tarkoitusta kylmästä, järjestelmällisestä elämästä ja löysi vain epätoivoa. Niin kauhea oli hänen epätoivonsa, että hulluus irtautui hänestä ja hän yritti paeta epätoivolta. Hän rukoilee, että suuruuden päivät palaisivat ja kantaisivat hänet takaisin vapauteen. Sillä epätoivo on vanginnut hänen vapautensa.
Vapauteni löytyy laulusta ja vain laulusta.
Hänellä ei ole mitään tarjota lunnaaksi, joten hän on epätoivoinen ja kyyneleet vierivät hänen poskellaan.
Epätoivo tiukentaa otettaan hänestä vetäen yhä syvemmälle ja syvemmälle epätoivon kuiluun, jossa hiljaisuus hallitsee häviö rinnallaan.
Ainoa mitä hän haluaa on saada ote viimeisistä vapauden rippeistä ennenkuin viimeisetkin viedään häneltä lopullisesti.
Mutta hän ei kuulu tänne. Täällä hänen rakkaudellaan ei ole paikkaa, vaan paikka on huijareille. Huijarit eivät rakasta vapaudesta vaan kieroutuneesta ja karkeasta syystä. He eivät rakasta kauneudesta vaan himosta. Kokemuksen ääni kertoo hänelle tämän.
Hän huutaa rakkauden perään, mihin huijarit vastaavat: "**: rakasta kuin me tai lähde, koska muutoin emme kuule." Hän kieltäytyy, muttei voi lähteä.
Ja niin hän tuijottaa ikkunastaan, kuin on tehyt joka päivä lukemattamat vuodet, kylmään pimeään yöhön.
**) I'm drawing a blank as how to translate 'Beggars can't be choosers'. I'm sure that there is a correspoding proverb in Finnish but I just can't remember it.
Re: Finnish translation
Date: 2006-12-28 01:59 pm (UTC)Can't talk now; using cousin's computer in Hong Kong. I'll update when I get home :)
Re: Finnish translation
Date: 2006-12-28 02:06 pm (UTC)Oooo, Hong Kong! Have fun :)
Re: Finnish translation
Date: 2006-12-29 11:00 am (UTC)*) Details at eleven. Or on UF. Or something.
Re: Finnish translation
Date: 2006-12-29 11:10 am (UTC)"Kerjäläiset eivät valikoi" or "Köyhä ei voi valikoida" :)