Transelating "The Waste Land" |
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The transelations by stanza 1
| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
| 6 | 7
| 8 | 9 | 10
| 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15
0. T.S Eliot Under
the brown fog of a winter dawn, A
crowd
flowed over I
had
not thought death had undone so many. Sighs,
short and infrequent, were exhaled, And
each
man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed
up the hill and down To
where
Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With
a
dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There
I
saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying "Stetson! "You
who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
"That
corpse you planted last year in your garden, "Has
it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? "Or
has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? "Oh
keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, "Or
with his nails he'll dig it up again! "You!
hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frere!"
A peeled sinking Persepolis, Thebes utter, owning the haze that comes with spring, When a crow flowered long and above the span of man, Unaware it killed him with the beat and flux of its feathers, high and hot ending focused, impaled and deflating, the shadow pointed arrows on the ground for man to follow. It flew down a draft and up a singing heat, towards Saigon via Norman time whispering flatly as the bell towers held the bells, swinging. Ferries moved, you, pausing in the street to lie, "That Son!" "We fought together in a place of oils! "How is your mother, "still dead, decaying? What has come of her? "Or has she already risen with the thaw? "I have a scarecrow for your mother, to keep the rats away, "from swooping down on bulging soil. "We confuse each other, shouting in the street, away from battle!"
2. Emma Tome Reeling, stinking, metropolis, a deep buried stutter under summer haze. Wrens low, fluttered strong; and with a gloved hand, led thunder to where it filled them with its sleek crux, with leather – Cried the unbending locusts, derailed and berating, (their meadow joins the fallow pounding, empty handed, hollow) It grew from chaff and from a stinging beat, forward to bygones and heathen aura crimes, shivering slightly as the bees cowered, hearing smells, stinging berries grew, too, crossing in the creek to cry "the Sun!" "we rot together in cross-bred toil" "flowers dissected, "still, red, betraying (what?) - the earth's err - Or that we all readily, stricken, recall that the air grows golden, covered - yet we reap all that's gray (drums swooning now, sinking roil.) "we refuse the buds, crowding the beats", a may phone rattled.
3. Aly Wong Reeling, rotting cities of buried flesh seeping through the summer's heat. Jays high, flapping wings with mitted hands, leading thunder to the sleek cross of gold. Locusts are crying, derailed farms and berated children, the meadow knows the hollow grounds, A single sting from the bee, forward to unearth the crimes of our fathers, slightly despairing the bees, healing the toxicating ground, the berries rot together in their seek to flee the sun. Cross-bred and tired, they dissect the red in order to betray the earth. Recall the putrid air and foul stink "we refuse the buds, beating the crowd," the rattling comes again
Reality is raping cities of buried, fleshing to the summer sheets Jagged highs, flashing swings with smote stands, leaving thunder to the slough, the cross of old. Lakes are sighing, detailed farms, braided children in the mead, nodding to the hollow sound of a single sing from the bird, forewarn the berth of the incriminated fathers. Still the space of bees, congealing over the tempting sound, the berries rate the weather as they seek to fly in sun. Crossed in love and tried they direct the bread in order to trade for the earth. Recall the placement of air and sink - they say "we refuse the buds, speaking the sound" - the rat-king comes again.
5. Rose Booker Real rapping paper buried flesh like 2Pac under fallen avenues Gag high schoolers, flashing pimp chains, with smut, leaving babies To carve out lies, cross stone Snake sigh, tailing military arms, branded children In maize, shaking leaving hollow noise of bird songs Warning the Earth of discriminating fathers Rats up the air as they speak Love crosses no boundaries Directs no traffic On Earth Call Say "we need no more colonies" Snake ear rats.
Red wrappers put beneath flappers like a two pack on final adventures. Gone, high, squeaky, flaps penguin charmers while smooth leaves baby the created, lying to stone crosses. Sneakily, said the tall militia, armed, Brandish like a child, into maze-like forests of leaves sublime. Not, as bathing, showered In territorial wars of discerned paternal lineage. Fill this honeycomb, jelly for cats, rodents upon the air speech waves, like bounded tombstones. Detract congested paths contested among placid mountain tops. Screams from collegiate wants streak earnestly past.
Red flames put sleepers to shock on adventures. Suddenly, smooth skin leaves penguins bald created, then lying to tombstones. Snakily, as a snail, protected, slugs along like a toddler, learning to walk in leaves sublime. No, showering discernment upon soldiers. Fill my cup, merely food for thought, although romantic speeches never moved me, like grass poking around cemeteries. Their green choked up trails forever stuck on placid mountain tops. Screams from bright wants sneak earnestly past.
8. Andy Iser A lone bridge above winter flames, come snow, be smooth and cover the flames like you cover my skin and leaves, don’t let penguins turn into snakes, don’t let snails burn in their shells, come snow, out of the garden, off the tombstones, cover up the soldiers, winter the discerning war with cool breath, with your gentle licking, fill up desperate cups snow, melt snow, melt like romance that turns into love, like grass growing on soccer fields where kids learn opposition and gaming, melt the sorrow in cemetery, change its state, make death happy, a rebirth, don’t sit placid snow, get off your mountaintops, your high horse, hear the screams melt them. Alone, frigid below winter rains, cold snow; bees move and hover over flames like you over my skin and leave, daunting men give warning shakes, daunting tales burn in their hell; cold snow, outings in gardens, over tombstones, hovering soldiers win these hovering wars with fool's wealth, with your mental kicking; Fill up desolate pubs so now, well so now, well like Romans, they turn to love; like crass crowing on softer fields where children learn propositions and games. We'll tomorrow be in seminaries, deranged states faking death and rebirth. Don't spit on peaceful snow, get off your bouncing beds, your flying horse, wear these screams well.
10. Yehonatan Sella A lone bridge below winter rain; bees flit under the snow. This painting looks nothing like winter. Hovering soldiers tread these passages— That fool paid for a cab to take him to Romania. The children must stay inside and play games. But yesterday in seminary, rage overcame him. His beard shined. He yelled something about death, and rebirth. "Don't spit on peaceful snow! Get off your flying horses!" His screams fell.
11. Devin Tasker A solitary ridge with nothing but winter rain; Little signs of life beneath snow. This is no picturesque winter. Off duty soldiers trudge through these passages. The foolish pay a cab to bring him to Romania. The children stay inside while the men play their games. But yesterday, this seminary of rage overcame him: His hair slick, he yelled something about death And rebirth. We’re killing on peaceful snow! Get out of your fantasized world! His screams fell in the snow. |
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