112 lines
3.3 KiB
HTML
Executable file
112 lines
3.3 KiB
HTML
Executable file
<html>
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<head>
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<title>Isa</title>
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<link href="./style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" title="main" media="all">
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</head>
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<body>
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<p class="center"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Runic_letter_isaz.svg"><img src="../img/runes/isa.svg" alt="Isa rune" title="Isa rune"></a></p>
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<h1>Isa</h1>
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<p>Traditional meaning: ice</p>
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<p>Meanings when upright:</p>
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<ul>
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<li>stillness and quiet</li>
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<li>silent contemplation</li>
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<li>the world that sleeps within</li>
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<li>boundaries of the soul</li>
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<li>individuation</li>
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<li>abeyance / temporary respite</li>
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</ul>
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<p>Meanings when inverted:</p>
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<ul>
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<li>reclusion</li>
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<li>emotional coldness</li>
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<li>a situation with no change in sight</li>
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<li>stagnation</li>
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<li>a weakened will</li>
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<li>inability to concentrate</li>
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</ul>
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<p>Isa can be useful for:</p>
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<ul>
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<li>finding a quiet place to concentrate</li>
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<li>casting a personal shield</li>
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<li>guarding against soul loss</li>
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</ul>
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<hr>
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<p>Anglo-Saxon rune poem:</p>
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<blockquote>
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Is byþ ofereald, ungemetum slidor,<br>glisnaþ glæshluttur gimmum gelicust,<br>flor forste geworuht, fæger ansyne.</blockquote>
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<blockquote>Ice is very cold and immeasurably slippery;<br>it glistens as clear as glass and most like to gems;<br>it is a floor wrought by the frost, fair to look upon.</blockquote>
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<p>Norwegian rune poem:</p>
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<blockquote>Ís ko,llum brú bræiða;<br>blindan þarf at læiða.</blockquote>
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<blockquote>Ice we call the broad bridge;<br>the blind man must be led.</blockquote>
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<p>A modern poem:</p>
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<blockquote>
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<p>Metaclysma,<br/>
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inter-world void.<br/>
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<strong>No touch, no voice,</strong><br/>
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silhouette of black,<br/>
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all other senses in lack.<br/>
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Just eternal light.</p>
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<p>I come to with limbs bound tight<br/>
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in open silk-lined coffin.<br/>
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Space between flight<br/>
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from Eris's explosion<br/>
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into metaclysma and now<br/>
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left unwritten, just as blank.<br/>
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Lights made dim as to not stain<br/>
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my vision with a single face<br/>
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of clergy self-proclaimed<br/>
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caretakers, unworthy to be named.<br/>
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To them, I think, I am a saint,<br/>
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a goddess who made sacrifice<br/>
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to give them <strong>this world that once was spring<br/>
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but now sleeps under blanket of ice.</strong></p>
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<p>Tomorrow steeps my Holiday<br/>
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where come commoners to pray<br/>
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to the casket where I've lain<br/>
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these five years, apparently,<br/>
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for grace<br/>
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or their fates to change.<br/>
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Body strewn over a bed<br/>
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in a darkened room, rubbing<br/>
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my limbs to regain<br/>
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five years of feeling,<br/>
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halfway sedate<br/>
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to keep aches from constructing<br/>
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a tower in my head.<br/>
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Maybe they wanted to reach the empty heavens<br/>
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too, drop a rock to bust open the frozen canyons.</p>
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<p>Jett,<br/>
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I had not the strength<br/>
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to your gentle hand hold on.<br/>
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I suppose<br/>
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I can only hope<br/>
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you're haunting somewhere in these halls,<br/>
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found a way these five years to cope<br/>
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with this world I made for you but did not survive<br/>
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to share. I think, unless I am deceived, I am alive<br/>
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now, again, yours forever.<br/>
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If you'll still have me as your wife.<br/>
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If you'll still live with me on that mountainside.</p>
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</blockquote>
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</body>
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</html> |