Tag "Melancholy" - Works and Original stories

A collection of poems written by the wonderful Echolot and translated by the humble myself. Enjoy!

Snow-white blankets gently covered the ground, like a curtain separating me from the rest of the world. I lay alone in the snow, in a near-death doze, feeling my every breath melt into the cold air. The narcotic coolness enveloped my body like the icy fingers of death, but at the same time it awakened memories that had long warmed my heart.

Once upon a time, in a distant and mysterious country, there lived people who believed in the power of magic. They fulfilled their desires, drawing strength from nature, and believed that the universe always gave them hints. But one day, everything changed.

There was no good ending. Cinderella was killed by her stepsisters and left to rot, while Anna and Elizabeth and their stepmother left to live in wealth and luxury. But this is not the end. May revenge be done.

It was the events of the terrible night of April 15, 1912 that formed the basis of James Cameron's film Titanic. About 1500 people ended up in the icy waters of the Atlantic, many lost their loved ones… Rose turned out to be one of them: Jack's death was a real blow to her. On April 18, she, along with the rest 700 survivors, arrived on the Carpathia in New York… alone… Will she be able to find the strength to continue her journey after this, to make her heart, which died with her lover, go on?…

The ship of family happiness crashes on the rocks of everyday life and protagonist finds himself in a lonely place to find a new ground and move on.

Free-style translation of poem 'The Black Man' by Russian poet Sergey Esenin.

Free-style translation of short poem by Russian poet Boris Ryzhy.

I'll give you all the world, Yennefer

n shadows deep, where echoes sigh, Life's hollow dance, devoid of why. A spectral waltz, in muted tones, A purpose lost, in silent moans.

In a quiet town, lost among the green hills, there was an old wooden church. With a firmament covered with streaks of time, it towered over the surrounding terrain, like an archaic guardian of centuries-old history. The roof, covered with moss and streaks, bent thoughtfully over the gray earthquake felt in the depths of the soul. This church was like an immortal metaphor for the loss to which the village was subjected.

The endless sea, broken into small drops, pours over my face. I feel every drop enveloping me like a gentle ghost, plunging into my madness. My thoughts are a bizarre dance of whirlwinds that never subside.

The city of chrome and glass woke up when the sun surrendered its superiority over the sky, and a dark veil rose above the horizon. The futuristic chatterbox known as Aura has begun its evening mood dressing. As a magical being, she did this every night -turning blocked audacious images into endless shadows and shades. The moonlight shone clear and pale, as if it were the last spark of hope in this abyss of an industrial monster.

Each of us has his own unique world, where the personality unfolds like a gallery of works of art. But not all the paintings are on public display. There are corners shaded by a veil of mystery, where the most personal, intimate part of the soul is hidden.

In the shadow of the backstage, where darkness dances in embraces with light, an amazing performance called "Buffoonery" unfolds. This is the theater of moments, where every actor — disguised by cunning and brilliance — plays his role in a magnificent symphony of pranks.

I only remember the doorstep, and even then, it feels like I'm looking at it from a distance: I am standing on the threshold, and he is sitting at my feet.

Darkness enveloped the room like a damp cloak that you carry through the night forest, blotting out the stars with your darkness. Only the faint light of the monthly radiance penetrated through the fabric of the curtains, spreading across the floor in quiet spots.

In the city of shadows, where echoes linger, Whispers of time, a mournful singer. Streets paved with dreams, now shrouded in gray, A symphony of silence, where memories decay.

Thick fog swirls in the corners of the ancient city, like a veil of mystery, shedding candlelight through the braided fingers of antiquity. The wind rises into the heart of this darkness, bringing with it the sounds of fear and recognition. In the middle of the streets, a figure wrapped in a cloak of dark dreams wanders along stone walls obscured by darkness. This is a flagellant wandering along the paths of self-denial.

In the shadow of the daytime stars, when the sun is already leaning towards its departure, the heavens begin to dance in a twilight waltz. The played celestial cellos perform a melody that seems soundless to the ears of the world. Clouds, like an overflow of emotions, float across the sky, leaving behind traces of invisible tears.