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Somerled

Somerled (died 1164), known in Middle Irish as Somairle, Somhairle, and Somhairlidh, and in Old Norse as Sumarliði [ˈsumɑrˌliðe], was a mid-12th-century Norse-Gaelic lord who, through marital alliance and military conquest, rose in prominence to create the Kingdom of Argyll and the Isles. Little is certain of Somerled's origins, although he may have been born in the north of Ireland and appears to have belonged to a Norse–Gaelic family of some prominence. His father, GilleBride, of royal Irish ancestry, appears to have conducted a marriage alliance with Máel Coluim mac Alaxandair, son of Alexander I of Scotland, and claimant to the Scottish throne. During a period of alliance with David I of Scotland, Somerled married Ragnhild, daughter of Óláfr Guðrøðarson, … more »

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I am what none is yet
And I am what already is
Never were I to be what was
Would I ever dare to be what cannot be either

Home is a garden that I can't keep alive
I receive guests and friends
Dearest of friends!
They flood my heart
But it always become vapor that escapes into my lungs
I wish to speak in love
And lovingly do I speak
But my words are the sounds of dreams
And dreamers die when they awake

A mother has died
And her children may never know the pain of life
Perhaps it was the best that could have happened to them
In this case
I wish I could feel this
Even if it broke me then and there
I would at least understand

Severed seas in future spectrum of light
Befitting a fair sum of feathers flying
Over oceans sleeping through nights
Bright goodbyes and waving hands
Ash clouds filling lungs and stomachs
A shadow of sorrow evaporates from burnt leaves of time

The air in the morning fly by our face
Desolation drying our tears
Anguish and love that doesn't die
Swirling unable to hold!
The natural world or whatever else it's called
And the universe saw all colors in shades of gray

Things were as they were
Are as they are
Yet again what else is there to say?
A life is a life until it isn't
Then nothing can be done!
There is nothing to add to it

For the cinders of the dead we used to lovE
We used to Used to forget
There from somewhere reverberates the echoes of a song of woes
One more day where the sun escapes one mor e day where the moon crawls across infinity pulled by the weight of what it hates and loves
One more day where spirits dream and plan
One more day where hope beams out
Only to break before the next sunset

When we see this the dead don't speak so why should we?

How many have you buried since you last came in here?

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