A Raven Christmas von Semiramis-Audron (The Death of a Poet) ================================================================================ Kapitel 1: Death ---------------- Christmas tales are merry and full of jolly and joys, but today I’ll tell you a story without candy, nor toys! One that has no happy end in this realm of existence, But if you don’t mind that, read on ‘til it ends. Somewhere in Ireland the day before Christmas 1836… the century of nineteen, There was a young man, no more a boy, but keen To write what his heart sent to his mind’s address. Unfortunately the people didn’t seem to like his art. And critique had always been hard To digest for an artist’s frail soul Especially if it was his goal To gain money with it for his life… And our poor writer did not sell a verse He bought his last food (three days ago) by selling his purse And he needed a wonder (from ol’ Ho Ho Ho) this merciless winter If he wanted to survive This terrific coldness, that cut like a splinter Into his skin under his worn-out, jaded coat With the pockets full of the poems he wrote. He wandered through the streets Snowflakes dancing around him But he only freezing and tired of treats He got from the people, they sent him away Leaving him hungry ant the rim Of starving on this cold pre-Christmas day. His feet felt unfeeling From his heart hope was peeling Like from a gravestone gold paint With people’s pity so faint At his pitiful look. The fingers frozen, numb, barely able To hold his scrapbook His writing unstable From his aching head And his burning throat… °If this misery’s living I’d rather be dead!° He thought as he went through unforgiving Snow to his rundown abode… But humans are evil, humans aren’t nice! They tear down your shed If you can’t pay the price Of the lawn where the box once stood Where you had your home, your memories, your bed And all your worldly good…. And as I said; our guy was a poor one He was starving, freezing and ill And when he came home, his home was gone! It gave him a thrill When he realized That on Christmas night He would sleep on the streets, which all where iced! And overcoming did fright Our penniless writer He’d probably die If his fate didn’t get brighter! So he tried to sell poems the rest of the day Sold nothing but begged all to please let him stay In their houses, their cellars, anywhere Just not in the ice cold winter out there! But no one showed mercy, they all just ignored The man holding his chest, for his lungs were sore-d By the illness he caught Just the scarf he once bought Relieved slightly the pain But all his trials and hopes were in vain… When night finally came over town Our penniless writer, powerless fell down On his knees, close to crying: “Oh God I beg thee!” He pleaded to heaven “I ain’t afraid of to leave here But afraid of the ache When my body doth brake So show mercy, don’t let me, Oh Grateful, be dying!” And thus went his first tear As mourning wept Devan Over his fate… While the evening got night And the night got late He heard some footsteps by his side Small footsteps from children Alone, lost, freezing, forlorn... And like little pilgrim They sat next to him “Dear Sir, mayest thou help us?” they asked like God’s scorn of his pleas in vain “We freeze, can’t find home ‘cos we lost our parents in the crowd.” “For Goldsmith’ sake!” He cried out loud “Can’t you see I have problems of my own? I’m dieing here to put it plain! So just leave me alone!” The children they shivered from cold and from fright And our fate stricken writer sighed In defeat and tried to speak calmer “Oh Christ, so then come under my coat and you’ll get warmer I can’t let you be freezing with streets over snowed.” He said that so softly with a smile on his lips The children felt safe now with him And flung their arms ‘round his hips. He smiled and read to them a sweat poem Though his heart and hope was dim “Your parents will soon come, take you home Have no fear, don’t let your hearts be clouded They lost you when the streets were crowded I’m sure they’re searching yet for you.” He whispered ensuring while a chill ran through His body again. The children were warm But not enough to ease the harm Cold had caused to the trembling man But it was not before then That he had felt the spirit of Christmas. He read them stories and poems so jolly “And thus” he said, “spoke the shepherds; Lord bless this child in the manger let it not suffer under men’s folly and not experience harm under Herod’s anger.” Yes the oldest Christmas story he told To the children who warmed and grabbed a hold On him, so they wouldn’t sink to sleep Because he feared their slumber’d be deep And forever, not like, but BE Morpheus’ brother Cold unfeeling death himself, no other! And even though our writer’s powers faded And the children grew tired He read on and warmed and aided To keep their little soul flames well fired Through the whole Christmas night When all was clam, all expectations bright And watched over them. He felt almost warm, when the sun’s first ray Shone on rosy aurora on Christmas day His body felt like burning and yet so weak On this Christmas morning and in his arms The children were save, like protected by charms But still in his chest, this feeling so bleak… Worried he thought °I can’t warm them much longer… They are frail and much younger Then I, and I can’t take any more Of this terrible cold. I said it before And I’ll say it once more…° “Oh Lord, hallowed be thy name! I beg you please, if only their parents came To take them home into the warm chamber Because the sun with her rays like ember Can’t warm them and neither can I so Lord please hear---“ But he was interrupted by a blissful cheer It was a young woman with husband, He looked quite relieved, she cried and They ran over to the three... The children so happy struggled free From under the coat of the writer And ran to their parents whose hearts got lighter. “Mummy, Daddy we missed you so badly ‘tis was cold and we frightened so madly.” Mother, father and children they were reunited And our freezing poet who had recited His stories and poems and rhymes through the hours of dark He smiled at this family, his coughing a soft bark. He felt warm now, much warmer than ever before When they came over to invite him to spent Christmas with them, he smiling closed his eyes And opened them… nevermore… The parent’s quickly took their children, telling them lies “He was an angel, from heaven sent now he’s just sleeping before going home Don’t worry he doth be alright, now come!” The little family went away from the cold man Having a cheerful holiday then. You may think now, that’s unfair That’s not how the story should be ending? Well it’s all depending On what you imagine, a complete end is rare… Likewise for our dead artist… Hosted by Animexx e.V. (http://www.animexx.de)