myOtaku.com: X Sesshomaru X

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Birthday
• 1990-07-05
Gender
• Male
Location
• My house
Member Since
• 2003-11-25
Occupation
• Web Developer
Real Name
• Jacob

Personal

Achievements
• Learned HTML, CSS, Javascript, Java, PHP, MySQL, and ASP
Anime Fan Since
• Ever
Favorite Anime
• I haven't the slightest clue.
Goals
• To create a web community with thousands of people.
Hobbies
• eating, sleeping, reading, writing, making websites, gaming, breathing, anime, manga
Talents
• Breathing (I've perfected the art (and, yes, damint, there is an art to it!))

myOtaku.com: X Sesshomaru X

Saturday, September 4, 2004

Easter by: Boris Pasternak
There's still a twilight of the night.
The world's so young in its proceeding,
That countless stars in sky abide,
And each one, like the day, is bright,
And if the Earth contained the might,
She'd sleep through Easter in delight,
Under the Psalter reading.

There's still a twilight of the night.
It's far too early, it appears,
That fields eternally subside,
Right from crossroad to the side,
And 'til the sunrise and the light,
There is a thousand years.

And Mother Earth, of clothes deprived,
Has nothing else to wear,
To strikes the church bell through night
Or echo choirs in the air.

And from the Maundy Thursday night
Right 'til the Easter Eve,
The water bores the coastal side
And whirlpools heave.

The forest, in exposed expanse,
To celebrate the holy times,
As though in prayer, calmly stands,
In gathered stems and trunks of pines.

And in the city, in one place,
As though a mob commenced,
The naked trees sincerely gaze
Straight at the Church's fence.

Their eyes are fully filled with rage,
And their concern is heard.
The gardens slowly leave their cage,
The Earth shakes wildly in its range,
They're burying the Lord.

A light is seen that dimly glows,
Black kerchiefs and long candle rows,
And weeping eyes--
And suddenly, there's a procession,
Bearing the sacred shroud of Christ
And every birch, with a concession,
Along the entrance subsides.

They walk around the royal square,
Along the sidewalk's edge.
Into the vestibule with care,
They bring the spring and springtime flair,
A scent of Eucharist in the air
And vernal rage.

And March is tossing snow around
To beggars gathered on Church ground,
As though a person just walked out,
Opened the shrine, took what he found
And gave it all away.

The singing lasts throughout the night,
Those who have wept enough, they lastly,
Walk humbly quietly outside,
Onto the land under the light,
To read the Psalter or Apostles.

But after midnight, all will quiet,
Hearing the vernal lecture,
That if we wait just for a while,
We'll cast His death into exile
With holy resurrection.
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