Status Updates From Eugenio Onieguin (Spanish E...

Once the forbidden fruit is seen, no paradise can stay serene❣️❣️❣️

We all resemble more or less
our mother Eve: we're never falling
for what's been given us to take;
to his mysterious tree the snake
is calling us, for ever calling—
and once forbidden fruit is seen,
no paradise can stay serene.

Whoa! " …but language died. " ❣️❣️❣️

However closely he inspected,
there was no trace to be detected
of the old Tatyana. Eugene tried
to talk to her, but language died.

So beautiful❣️

"Is it that we've become officious
and prone to censure in our thought;
that fiery souls' headstrong enthusing
appears offensive or amusing
to the complacent and the null:
that wit embarrasses the dull;
that we enjoy equating chatter
with deeds; that dunces now and then
take wing on spite; that serious men
find, in the trivial, serious matter;
that mediocre dress alone
fits us as if it were our own."

She hates this grand world's tumult, frankly.
It's stifling here...and, in a dream,
She sails away to field and stream,
Back to the backwoods' humble peasants,
Back to that lonely, tranquil nook
Where, bubbling, flows her lively brook;
Back to her books, her private pleasance…

This world's so vacuous that it's got
no spark of fun in all its rot!

Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Still for ever fare thee well.

— Byron

Muse of the epic, bless my work!
in my long task, be my upholder,
put a strong staff into my hand,
don't let me stray in paths unplanned.

📚♥️📚

Upon those books she turned her mind,
And finding them of curious kind,
She soon was all engrossed in reading,
An eager passage, door on door,
To worlds she never knew before.

The cold irony of this verse, in the contemporary zeitgeist, is not lost, when one reflects on Aleksandr Pushkin himself❗

💔💝👌

…True,
The poet's slain and gone; but who
Here in the world he left still felt it?
…
Like smoke into the sky and melted.
Two hearts, perhaps, for his sad lot
Were grieving still…grieving for what?

…Oblivion lonely
Awaits our shadows down below,
The tones of lover, friend, and foe
Are silenced all at once, and only
The angry heirs to our estate
Intone their scandalous debate.

Shall I confess my petty crime?
I chase the petticoats of rhyme

Oh, dreams, my dreams, where is your sweetness?
Oh, youth's (the rhyme fair beckons) fleetness!
Can it be really true at last,
Its lovely bloom is past, is past,

Thank you for all the gifts I treasure,
thank you for sorrow and for pleasure,
thank you for suffering and its joys,
for tempests and for feasts and noise;
thank you indeed. Alike in sorrow
and in flat calm I've found the stuff
of perfect bliss in you. Enough!