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| Posted By | Discussion Topic: Bastille Day | ||||
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| IAmMighty | posted on 07-14-2002 @ 9:47 PM |    | |||
| Psychopath Registered: Sep. 00  | July 14th, Bastille Day Time for Rush... There’s no bread, let them eat cake There’s no end to what they’ll take Flaunt the fruits of noble birth Wash the salt into the earth But they’re marching to Bastille Day La guillotine will claim her bloody prize Free the dungeons of the innocent The King will kneel, and let his kingdom rise Bloodstained velvet, dirty lace Naked fear on every face See them bow their heads to die As we would bow when they rode by And we’re marching to Bastille Day La guillotine will claim her bloody prize Sing, o choirs of cacophony The King has kneeled, to let his kingdom rise Lessons taught, but never learned All around us anger burns Guide the future by the past Long ago the vote was cast For they marched up to Bastille Day La guillotine - claimed her bloody prize Hear the echoes of the centuries Power isn’t all that money buys  "It's raining in story land... ...stuck in the pages so long"-King's X | ||||
| Danked Dankarella! | posted on 07-14-2002 @ 10:11 PM | | |||
| O&A Board Regular Registered: Aug. 00 | B-but I don't know any Bastille Day songs.... | ||||
| Danked Dankarella! | posted on 07-14-2002 @ 10:18 PM | | |||
| O&A Board Regular Registered: Aug. 00 | Here... I don't know what it means, but it has the word Bastille in it... Il est minuit ; on ne voit plus un seul omnibus de la Bastille à la Madeleine. Je me trompe ; en voilà un qui apparaît subitement, comme s’il sortait de dessous terre. Les quelques passants attardés le regardent attentivement ; car, il paraît ne ressembler à aucun autre. Sont assis, à l’impériale, des hommes qui ont l’œil immobile, comme celui d’un poisson mort. Ils sont pressés les uns contre les autres, et paraissent avoir perdu la vie ; au reste, le nombre réglementaire n’est pas dépassé. Lorsque le cocher donne un coup de fouet à ses chevaux, on dirait que c’est le fouet qui fait remuer son bras, et non son bras le fouet. Que doit être cet assemblage d’êtres bizarres et muets ? Sont-ce des habitants de la lune ? Il y a des moments où on serait tenté de le croire ; mais, ils ressemblent plutôt à des cadavres. L’omnibus, pressé d’arriver à la dernière station, dévore l’espace, et fait craquer le pavé... Il s’enfuit !... Mais, une masse informe le poursuit avec acharnement, sur ses traces, au milieu de la poussière. "Arrêtez, je vous en supplie ; arrêtez... mes jambes sont gonflées d’avoir marché pendant la journée... je n’ai pas mangé depuis hier... mes parents m’ont abandonné... je ne sais plus que faire... je suis résolu de retourner chez moi, et j’y serais vite arrivé, si vous m’accordiez une place... je suis un petit enfant de huit ans, et j’ai confiance en vous..." Il s’enfuit !... Il s’enfuit !... Mais, une masse informe le poursuit avec acharnement, sur ses traces, au milieu de la poussière. Un de ces hommes, à l’œil froid, donne un coup de coude à son voisin, et paraît lui exprimer son mécontentement de ces gémissements, au timbre argentin, qui parviennent jusqu’à son oreille. L’autre baisse la tête d’une manière imperceptible, en forme d’acquiescement, et se replonge ensuite dans l’immobilité de son égoïsme, comme une tortue dans sa carapace. Tout indique dans les traits des autres voyageurs les mêmes sentiments que ceux des deux premiers. Les cris se font encore entendre pendant deux ou trois minutes, plus perçants de seconde en seconde. L’on voit des fenêtres s’ouvrir sur le boulevard, et une figure effarée, une lumière à la main, après avoir jeté les yeux sur la chaussée, refermer le volet avec impétuosité, pour ne plus reparaître... Il s’enfuit !... Il s’enfuit !... Mais, une masse informe le poursuit avec acharnement, sur ses traces, au milieu de la poussière. Seul, un jeune homme, plongé dans la rêverie, au milieu de ces personnages de pierre, paraît ressentir de la pitié pour le malheur. En faveur de l’enfant, qui croit pouvoir l’atteindre, avec ses petites jambes endolories, il n’ose pas élever la voix ; car les autres hommes lui jettent des regards de mépris et d’autorité, et il sait qu’il ne peut rien faire contre tous. Le coude appuyé sur ses genoux et la tête entre ses mains, il se demande, stupéfait, si c’est là vraiment ce qu’on appelle la charité humaine. Il reconnaît alors que ce n’est qu’un vain mot, qu’on ne trouve plus même dans le dictionnaire de la poésie, et avoue avec franchise son erreur. Il se dit : "En effet, pourquoi s’intéresser à un petit enfant ? Laissons-le de côté." Cependant, une larme brûlante a roulé sur la joue de cet adolescent, qui vient de blasphémer. Il passe péniblement la main sur son front, comme pour en écarter un nuage dont l’opacité obscurcit son intelligence. Il se démène, mais en vain, dans le siècle où il a été jeté ; il sent qu’il n’y est pas à sa place, et cependant il ne peut en sortir. Prison terrible ! Fatalité hideuse ! Lombano, je suis content de toi depuis ce jour ! Je ne cessais pas de t’observer, pendant que ma figure respirait la même indifférence que celle des autres voyageurs. L’adolescent se lève, dans un mouvement d’indignation, et veut se retirer, pour ne pas participer, même involontairement, à une mauvaise action. Je lui fais un signe, et il se remet à mon côté... Il s’enfuit !... Il s’enfuit !... Mais, une masse informe le poursuit avec acharnement, sur ses traces, au milieu de la poussière. Les cris cessent subitement ; car, l’enfant a touché du pied contre un pavé en saillie, et s’est fait une blessure à la tête, en tombant. L’omnibus a disparu à l’horizon, et l’on ne voit plus que la rue silencieuse... Il s’enfuit !... Il s’enfuit !... Mais, une masse informe ne le poursuit plus avec acharnement, sur ses traces, au milieu de la poussière. Voyez ce chiffonnier qui passe, courbé sur sa lanterne pâlotte ; il y a en lui plus de cœur que dans tous ses pareils de l’omnibus. Il vient de ramasser l’enfant ; soyez sûr qu’il le guérira, et ne l’abandonnera pas, comme ont fait ses parents. Il s’enfuit !... Il s’enfuit !... Mais, de l’endroit où il se trouve, le regard perçant du chiffonnier le poursuit avec acharnement, sur ses traces, au milieu de la poussière !... Race stupide et idiote ! Tu te repentiras de te conduire ainsi. C’est moi qui te le dis. Tu t’en repentiras, va ! tu t’en repentiras. Ma poésie ne consistera qu’à attaquer, par tous les moyens, l’homme, cette bête fauve, et le Créateur, qui n’aurait pas dû engendrer une pareille vermine. Les volumes s’entasseront sur les volumes, jusqu’à la fin de ma vie, et, cependant, l’on n’y verra que cette seule idée, toujours présente à ma conscience ! | ||||
| Mr. Croup | posted on 07-14-2002 @ 10:19 PM | | |||
| Hanger-On Registered: Apr. 02 | Translation? Anyone? "They're all gonna laugh at you!." Your hands and feet are mangoes--you're gonna be a genius anyway... | ||||
| IAmMighty | posted on 07-14-2002 @ 10:38 PM | | |||
| Psychopath Registered: Sep. 00 | quote: "I miss Tommy Chong" "It's raining in story land... ...stuck in the pages so long"-King's X | ||||
| Sir Okonkwo | posted on 07-14-2002 @ 11:46 PM | | |||
| Psychopath Registered: Jun. 01 | Can't continue with the Bastille theme...so I'll continue with the Rush theme. I. Prelude When our weary world was young The struggle of the ancients first began. The gods of Love and Reason Sought alone to rule the fate of Man. They battled through the ages, But still neither force would yield. The people were divided, Every soul a battlefield. II. Apollo/Dionysus Apollo: Bringer of Wisdom "I bring truth and understanding, I bring wit and wisdom fair, Precious gifts beyond compare. We can build a world of wonder, I can make you all aware. I will find you food and shelter, Show you fire to keep you warm Through the endless winter storm. You can live in grace and comfort In the world that you transform." The people were delighted Coming forth to claim their prize They ran to build their cities And converse among the wise. But one day the streets fell silent, Yet they knew not what was wrong. The urge to build these fine things Seemed not to be so strong. The wise men were consulted, And the Bridge of Death was crossed In quest of Dionysus To find out what they had lost. Dionysus: Bringer of Love "I bring love to give you solace In the darkness of the night, In the Heart's eternal light. You need only trust your feelings; Only love can steer you right. I bring laughter, I bring music, I bring joy and I bring tears. I will soothe your primal fears. Throw off those chains of reason And your prison disappears." The cities were abandoned, And the forests echoed song. They danced and lived as brothers; They knew love could not be wrong. Food and wine they had aplenty And they slept beneath the stars. The people were contented And the gods watched from afar. But the winter fell upon them And it caught them unprepared, Bringing wolves and cold starvation, And the hearts of men despaired. III. Armageddon: The Battle of Heart and Mind The universe divided As the Heart and Mind collided, With the people left unguided For so many troubled years. In a cloud of doubts and fears, Their world was torn asunder into hollow Hemispheres. Some fought themselves, some fought each other, Most just followed one another Lost and aimless like their brothers For their hearts were so unclear And the truth could not appear Their spirits were divided into blinded Hemispheres. Some who did not fight Brought tales of old to light. "My Rocinante sailed by night On her final flight." To the heart of Cygnus' fearsome force We set our course Spiralled through that timeless space To this immortal place. IV. Cygnus: Bringer of Balance I have memory and awareness, But I have no shape or form. As a disembodied spirit, I am dead and yet unborn. I have passed into Olympus As was told in tales of old, To the city of Immortals, Marble white and purest gold... I see the gods in battle rage on high... Thunderbolts across the sky... I cannot move, I cannot hide... I feel a silent scream begin inside... Then all at once the chaos ceased A stillness fell, a sudden peace The warriors felt my silent cry And stayed their struggle, mystified. Apollo was atonished; Dionysus thought me mad. But they heard my story further And they wondered, and were sad. Looking down from Olympus On a world of doubt and fear, Its surface splintered Into sorry Hemispheres. They sat a while in silence, Then they turned at last to me: "We will call you Cygnus, The god of Balance you shall be." V.The Sphere: A Kind of Dream We can walk our road together If our goals are all the same. We can run alone and free If we pursue a different aim. Let the Truth of Love be lighted, Let the Love of Truth shine clear. Sensibility, Armed with sense and liberty, With the Heart and Mind united in a single Perfect Sphere. | ||||
| goatweed I've Got A Vagina With Teeth. G.O.O.F.B.A.H.G.S. Dragoon Battalion My friends call me Weed | posted on 07-14-2002 @ 11:53 PM | | |||
| O&A Board Regular Registered: Jan. 01 | Speaking of RUSH...is anyone going to the show at Jones Beach tomorrow night? I am :-D You can reach me through AIM or email. I really don't give a fuck as to which one you use.
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| Danked Dankarella! | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 12:04 AM | | |||
| O&A Board Regular Registered: Aug. 00 | Pffffft... Rush. Sure, take the easy way out. | ||||
| Sir Okonkwo | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 12:24 AM | | |||
| Psychopath Registered: Jun. 01 | Ok, I lied. I just wanted an excuse to post some Rush lyrics. This better? Aristocrats held all the cards The rules they made kept people barred And when the king refused to share their rights They knew this time he'd gone too far The palace guards had guns and mace To keep the marchers in their place But even if their restless blood should run The choice was made, the breakdown had begun The tower falls, the flag is changed The new one still looks much the same While nameless faces sit for portrait painters About to see it all again Whose hand is seen as open Whose hands are bound? Who wears the cap, who wears the crown? Storm The Bastille | ||||
| Danked Dankarella! | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 12:29 AM | | |||
| O&A Board Regular Registered: Aug. 00 | En français, por favor... | ||||
| jmoore | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 12:34 AM | | |||
| Psychopath Registered: May. 02 | quote: I have a master's degree in French and I worked in France for 10 years translating Garfield comic strips. Here's what it says: It is midnight; one does not see only one any more slow train of the Bastille in the Madeleine. I am mistaken; in here one which appears suddenly, as if it left lower part ground. The few delayed passers by look at it attentively; because, it appears to resemble no other. Sat, with imperial, men who have the motionless eye, like that of a dead fish. They are in a hurry the ones against the others, and appear to have lost the life; with the remainder, the lawful number is not exceeded. When the coachman gives a blow of whip to his horses, it would be said that it is the whip which makes stir up its arm, and not its arm the whip. What has to be this assembly of odd and dumb beings? Are this inhabitants of the moon? Moments ago when one would be tempted to believe it; but, they resemble corpses rather. The slow train, in a hurry to arrive at the last station, devours space, and makes crack the paving stone... It flees!... But, a mass informs continues it with eagerness, on its traces, in the medium of dust. "Stop, I beg you; stop... my legs are inflated to have gone during the day... I did not eat since yesterday... my parents gave up me... I do not know more that to make... I am solved to turn over at home, and I would quickly have arrived there, if you grant a place to me... I am a eight year old little child, and I rely on you... " It flees!... It flees!... But, a mass informs continues it with eagerness, on its traces, in the medium of dust. One of these men, to the cold eye, gives a blow of elbow to its neighbor, and appears to express its dissatisfaction with these gémissements to him, with the Argentinian stamp, who arrive to his ear. The other lowers the head in an unperceivable way, in form of consent, and replonge then in the immobility of its selfishness, like a tortoise in its carapace. All indicates in the features of the other travellers the same feelings as those of the two first. The cries are still made hear during two or three minutes, more piercing of second in second. One sees windows opening on the boulevard, and a figure frightened, a light with the hand, after having thrown the eyes on the roadway, to close again the shutter with impetuosity, not to reappear more... It flees!... It flees!... But, a mass informs continues it with eagerness, on its traces, in the medium of dust. Only, a young man, plunged in the daydream, with the medium of these stone characters, appears to feel pity for misfortune. In favour of the child, who believes capacity to reach it, with his small legs endolories, it does not dare to raise the voice; because the other men throw authority and scornful looks to him, and it knows that it can nothing make against all. The elbow pressed on its knees and the head between its hands, it wonders, amazed, if it is there really what is called human charity. It recognizes whereas it is only one vain word, that one does not find even any more in the dictionary of poetry, and acknowledges with frankness his error. It is said: "Indeed, why be interested in a little child? Let us leave it side." However, an extreme tear rolled on the cheek of this teenager, who comes from blasphémer. It painfully passes the hand on its face, as to draw aside from it a cloud whose opacity darkens its intelligence. It demene, but in vain, in the century when he was thrown; it feels that it is not there in its place, and however it cannot leave there. Terrible prison! Hideous fate! Lombano, I have been content with you for this day! I did not cease observing you, while my figure breathed the same indifference as that of the other travellers. The teenager rises, in a fit of indignation, and wants to withdraw himself, not to take part, even involuntarily, with an ill deed. I make him a sign, and it goes back to my side... It flees!... It flees!... But, a mass informs continues it with eagerness, on its traces, in the medium of dust. The cries cease suddenly; because, the child touched foot against a projecting paving stone, and was made a wound with the head, while falling. The slow train disappeared at the horizon, and nothing any more but the quiet street is seen... He flees!... He flees!... But, a mass informs does not continue it more with eagerness, on its traces, in the medium of dust. See this ragman who passes, curved on his lantern pâlotte; there is in him more heart than in all its similar of the slow train. It has just collected the child; be sure that it will cure it, and will not give up it, as made his/her parents. It flees!... It flees!... But, of the place where it is, the glance boring of the ragman continues it with eagerness, on its traces, in the medium of dust!... Stupid race and idiot! You will repent to lead you thus. It is me which you say it. You t'en will repent, goes! you t'en will repent. My poetry will only consist in tackling, by all the means, the man, this wild beast, and the Creator, who should not have generated a similar vermin. Volumes will pile up on volumes, until the end of my life, and, however, one will see there only this only idea, always present at my conscience!  | ||||
| Sir Okonkwo | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 12:40 AM | | |||
| Psychopath Registered: Jun. 01 | quote:I don't speak fag. And isn't "por favor" Spanish? | ||||
| Danked Dankarella! | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 12:49 AM | | |||
| O&A Board Regular Registered: Aug. 00 | quote: Duh. Can't slip anything past you! | ||||
| BigStupid I got a new status because Alkey figured out how to do it. | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 12:52 AM | | |||
| Psychopath Registered: May. 02 | Some ultra-nationalist neo-nazi retard tried to asassinate French Pres. Chirac today. Finally a frog with enough balls to shoot at someone. Unfortunately Chirac is also French! When are these people going to learn how to shoot at their ENEMIES? | ||||
| Sir Okonkwo | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 12:54 AM | | |||
| Psychopath Registered: Jun. 01 | Shouldn't you be hiding somewhere? | ||||
| Danked Dankarella! | posted on 07-15-2002 @ 1:01 AM | | |||
| O&A Board Regular Registered: Aug. 00 | Ants likes when threads crossover. He would think this is cool. | ||||
Displaying 1-16 of 16 messages in this thread. |