þetta er virkilega ömurlegur þráður

*kossar og knús*

i stand on the cliffs with my son next to me,
this island our prison, our home.
and everyday we look out at the sea,
this place is all he´s ever known.

but i´ve got a plan with some wax and some string,
some feathers i stole from the birds.
we leap from the cliffs and we hear the wind sing,
a song thats to perfect for words.

but son, please keep a steady wing,
and know youre the only one who means anything to me.
steer clear of the sun,
or youll find yourself in the sea.

now safely away, i let out a cry,
“well make the mainland by noon”.
but icrus climbs higher still in the skye,
mabey i´ve spoken too soon.


but son, please keep a steady wing,
and know youre the only one who means anything to me.
steer clear of the sun,
or youll find yourself in the sea,
wont you look at your wings,
they are coming undone,
splitting at the seams.
steer clear of the sun,
for once wont you listen to me.

gods,why is this happening to me,
all i wanted was a new life,
for my son to grow up free.
now you took the only thing,
that means anything to me,
i will never fly again, i will hang up my wings.

oooooh gods!

hundu

Þér leiðsit
:D

Við rætur máttarstólpanna rann upp nýr dagur. Mistrið reyndi án árangurs að klifra upp himnafestingarnar, en varð fljótt að hörfa undan heitum tungum sólarinnar. Þegar skammt var til botns kom í ljós mikill hjálmur upp úr þokunni og leit til himins.

Ljós gegnum trjágreinar gerir þér gott drengur minn.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nt2OVAgkHBc

ég mana þig til að hætta að búa til svona fáránlega asanlega tilgangslausa þræði sem snúast eingöngu um að þú sjálfur fáir smá plús frá áhorfendum.

luv;*

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time.