Favorite Literature of Swaniel Genji Harrienger

I am a poor pilgrim of sorrow.
I’m in this wide world alone.
No hope in this world for tomorrow.
I’m tryin’ to make heaven my home.

Sometimes I am tossed and driven.
Sometimes I don’t know where to roam.
I’ve heard of a city called heaven.
I’ve started to make it my home.

My mother’s gone on to pure glory.
My father’s still walking in sin.
My sisters and brothers won’t own me
Because I’m tryin’ to get in.

Sometimes I am tossed and driven.
Sometimes I don’t know where to roam.
But I’ve heard of a city called heaven
And I’ve started to make it my home.

♥SwaniRose Morgan♥


It is amazing how the Children’s Encyclopedia

Remains part of my life, I carry the ancient set

Wherever I go, one day Tiaan decided

He needed some encyclopedias in his bookcase

Took a few into his room, now I find volumes

Under his bed?

I took them back to the study, now a volume

Behind my back on the special computer chair

Helps me to sit up straight?

Yesterday I started looking for favorite childhood

Pictures in one of the Encyclopedias, found one

Which I scanned

I even took two of these volumes to my office,

Making sure that the essence of life will always be with me.

A Ballad of John Silver

We were schooner-rigged and rakish,

With a long and lissome hull,

And we flew the pretty colors of the crossbones and the skull;

We’d a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the fore,

And we sailed the Spanish water in the happy days of yore.

We’d a long brass gun and ships, like a well-conducted ship,

We had each a brace of pistols and a cutlass at the hip;

It’s a point which tells against us, a fact to be deplored,

But we chased the goodly merchant men and laid their ships aboard.

Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded filled the chains,

And the paintwork all was spatterdashed with other people’s brains.

She was boarded, she was looted, she was scuttled till she sank.

And the pale survivors left us by the medium of the plank.

O! then it was (while standing by taffrail on the poop)

We could hear the drowning folk lament the absent chicken coop;

Then, having washed the blood away, we’d little else to do

Than to dance a quiet hornpipe as the old salts taught us to do.

O!  the fiddle on the fo’c’sle, and the slapping naked soles,

And the genial “Down the middle, lake and curtsey when she rolls!”

With the silver seas around us and the pale moon overhead,

And the look out not a looking and his pipe bowl a glowing red.

Ah!  the pig tailed quidding pirates and the pretty pranks we played,

All have since been put a stop to by the naughty Board of Trade;

The schooners and the merry crews are laid away to rest,

A little south the sunset in the Islands of the Blest.

History of the Night by Jorges Luis Borges

Through the course of generations

Men brought the night into being.

In the beginning were blindness and dream

And thorns which gash the bare foot

And fear of wolves.

We shall never know who fashioned the word

For the interval of darkness

Which divides the two half-lights.

We shall never know in what century it stood

For the starry spaces.

Others began the myth

They made night mother of the tranquil Fates

Who weave all destiny

And sacrificed black sheep to her

And the rooster which announced her end.

The Chaldeans gave her twelve houses;

Infinite worlds, the Stoic Portico.

Latin hexameters molded her,

And Pascal’s dread.

Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland

Of his shivering soul.

Now we feel her inexhaustible

As an old wine

And no one can think of her without vertigo,

And time has changed her with eternity.

And to think that night would not exist

Without those tenous instruments, the eyes.

et cetera