Intangible
Wôuhlalãh
[Graine de TK]
[Toutes les informations présentées en dessous de cette ligne sont spécifiées par le joueur et ne sont donc pas officielles]
Poissard N77 (02 oct 06) wouaaaah, si je tenais le grouillot qui disait "malheureux au jeu...."
Poissard N15 (01 avril 07) Record battu, ça c'est du poisson !
Mes composants en vente sur CompoLand :
... mais on s'en fout, non ?
et, au passage, spécialement pour certains TID (Troll Intellectuellement Défavorisés), ça vous dit quelque chose ça :
bon, allez, j'vous laisse avec de l'art anglais (comme ça personne comprend et on peut passer à la suite : le moment où je vous tombe dessus pour vous téléporter en surface !)
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woebegone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
"I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful -a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said
`I love thee true.'
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dreamed -Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill's side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried -`La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats (La belle Dame sans merci)