But then you will see his black wings, not of the fallen, but of death, upon which carries an immensity of melancholy ~ by LadyLeaf

2BlueWizards

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Ooh, it's nice to learn more about Fridolin! :D

8 years ago

Sorachan

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Yay!! For reasons that I can't quite grasp or explain, I love this guy so much! ^^ I'm so glad we get to learn a little more about him!

8 years ago

LadyLeaf

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He will drink from your joys and tears and you, his tenderness. Then you will render your life and death to him, to his embrace.

8 years ago

LadyLeaf

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Martyr of his own, whose eyes are the miniature of the benighted ocean, upon which's blacken waves rocks a silver moon and the dreamless dreams. You will float upon the waves, you will ride upon the dreams. You will be stricken with this vast nothingness, taken, raided, stript to naked. Then you will feel peace, a great wash of an overwhelming ecstasy. Yes, yes, he knows. You don't need to speak a word, and he understands everything.

8 years ago

LadyLeaf

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their great mercy and great compassion in one single drop. And that is his face, his countenance, that is laden with kindness, yet is death not kind to the suffering? A child of lord death and lady life, blessed and cursed by both his parents. He heals and kills, and struggles in the irreconcilable conflicts upon which the world was built, from which came the impulse of our existence, ad vitam aeternam.

8 years ago

LadyLeaf

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and halo, the black streaks of tears etched by rains and time. Yet is he not glorious? Does he not wear the marble likeness of the heavenly Seraphim? On the tide of moonlight the flightless dove takes flight. He sheds his feathers of the purest white like the Udumbara blooms and fades in the blink of an eye. They fall gently on the stone images of the Saints, they strokes down the curved brows and eyes of the painted Bodhisattva, they hold their tears,

8 years ago

LadyLeaf

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But then you will see his black wings, not of the fallen, but of death, upon which carries an immensity of melancholy. A profound sorrow takes root not in his personal tragedy, but in a mortal grief, a philosopher's weariness for the sadness of this world, a wanderer's sorrow for a phantom home. In his mother tongue they call it Weltschmerz. Ah but he is an Angel after all, a weeping Angel of the cemetery, whose wings are the moss and the decay, and halo,

8 years ago