27/9/2010



20/9/2010



16/9/2010



31/8/2009



22:10



21:55



21:55



“When the poet’s pain is soothed by a liquid jewel held in the sacred chalice, upon which rests the pierced spoon, the crystal sweetness, icy streams trickle down. The darkest forest melts into an open meadow. Waves of green seduce. Sanity surrendered, the soul spirals toward the murky depths, wherin lies the beautiful madness - absinthe.”

21:50



21:47



17:10



Absinthia Taetra

Absinthia Taetra
Green changed to white, emerald to opal; nothing was changed.
The man let the water trickle gently into his glass,
and as the green clouded, a mist fell from his mind.

Then he drank opaline.

Memories and terrors beset him.
The past tore after him like a panther and
through the blackness of the present he saw
the luminous tiger eyes of the things to be.

But he drank opaline.

And that obscure night of the soul, and the valley of humiliation,
through which he stumbled, were forgotten.
He saw blue vistas of undiscovered countries,
high prospects and a quiet, caressing sea.
The past shed its perfume over him,
today held his hand as if it were a little child,
and tomorrow shone like a white star: nothing was changed.

He drank opaline.

The man had known the obscure night of the soul,
and lay even now in the valley of humiliation;
and the tiger menace of the things to be was red in the skies.
But for a little while he had forgotten.
Green changed to white, emerald to opal; nothing was changed.

~ Ernest Dowson

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