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autumn-and-winter-love · 6 months

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The song you sing...

#autumn colors #autumn #autumn love #fall season #autumn leaves #autumn season #fall decor #fall foliage #fall #fall leaves #november #novembre #autumn and fall image

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myelicia · 5 months

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Le soleil froid donnait un ton rose au grésil, - Et le ciel de novembre avait des airs d'avril.

François Coppée

#novembre

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apatheticworldd · 6 months

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Il mio mood è grigio come le foto

#me #novembre

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lickthecowhappy · 16 days

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I struggled with this one so please be nice to me. I think the prolonged exposure to low grade sadness made me grumpy.

The French text in this poem is taken from Gustave Flaubert’s 1842 novela Novembre.

And for the record, I don't think Crowley is really this much of a sad sack, it's just artistic license.

Translated version is below the cut.

Deux Langues de Nous

Rhapsodies poétiques, I stuttered and struggled- laid utterly bare- surrounded by the words of infamous poets, all fleeing my grasp like timid prey. souvenirs de mauvaises lectures, How desperate I was to recall any soliloquy, monologue, or profession of love crafted so carefully by the human heart. hyperboles de rhétorique, I could not compare thee to a Summer's day, nor my love to a red red rose; I only scrabbled for any stale crumb of affection my mouth could offer. que toutes ces grandes douleurs sans nom, We couldn't say it, unspoken all those years- until I put a name to what could have been, and took “Us” with me when I left. mais le bonheur aussi ne serait-il pas une métaphore inventée un jour d’ennui? Perhaps I was not created to be loved, only to be used and discarded. Cast down once Love, Herself, tired of me. J’en ai longtemps douté, For one bitter moment I believed in my withered soul that you might hold me dear. How foolish I must have seemed in your eyes. aujourd’hui je n’en doute plus. You and I were speaking two different languages and you were never very good with French. I suppose we both learned that the hard way.

[Translation]

[Two Languages of Us]

[Poetic rhapsodies,] I stuttered and struggled- laid utterly bare- surrounded by the words of infamous poets, all fleeing my grasp like timid prey. [memories of bad readings,] How desperate I was to recall any soliloquy, monologue, or profession of love crafted so carefully by the human heart. [rhetorical hyperboles,] I could not compare thee to a Summer's day, nor my love to a red red rose; I only scrabbled for any stale crumb of affection my mouth could offer. [all these great nameless pains,] We couldn't say it, unspoken all those years- until I put a name to what could have been, and took “Us” with me when I left. [But maybe happiness too, is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom?] Perhaps I was not created to be loved, only to be used and discarded. Cast down once Love, Herself, tired of me. [I doubted it for a long time,] For one bitter moment I believed in my withered soul that you might hold me dear. How foolish I must have seemed in your eyes. [today I no longer doubt it.] You and I were speaking two different languages and you were never very good with French. I suppose we both learned that the hard way.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #poetry #poem #i spent a normal amount of time on this #gustave flaubert #novembre #good omens poem #maybe happiness is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom

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fiammarock · 6 months

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