O' velveted eyes, morning-mist fur...O velveted eyes, morning-mist fur,
A wilting flow'r in hand,
She gaze'd from afar
And I was taken to that far away land.
Time does pass, my dear, too true
are we to those who take
and never return to you
all that was lost in your depth; thine heartache.
YearshaAn aisha scorned. Once a fair beauty, now aged, tired and cast from society. Confused and abandoned as everything she had known was torn from her by three pairs of hands. A poet, a war and a brother. Her courtly manners count for nothing now, everything has been lost. She witnesses the heavy spectacle of dying grandeur from her room high above us all and turns. Draws the curtains. Withdraws into the dark... She is lost... She is lost... She is lost...
A love so fleeting...Forever searching, forever hunting, a neverending tale of yearning. Of longing for perfection -- those mornings of the ineffable splendor of companionship. A morning awoken to the singing of birds and the smell of her hair, the rustle and wave of trees in the wind. The prospect of another night to come with such a rare gem in the rugged and barren waste of lifeless soil. For you, only you.
But the minds of poets are like the flit of a chaffinchs wing. A flash, a heartbeat and it's gone, changed. Their heart seeks perfection and you, my dear, have grown old. He tires of your touch, grows weary of your voice, he longs for something new, something different to explore. He knows the sound of your feet and the smell of your neck, he predicts your words before they are said and he wants to move on.
He takes everything with him -- Your spirit, your passion, your love. You stand at the door, jasmin weeping delicately around you as he walks, the blossoms falling like tiny white stars. Tears do not come. You have hardened. This was foreseen, just not believed, unbelievable until now. He turns just before the corner and bows a little -- a gracious and thankful farewell to the one he loved and still respects. You curtsey and look down, solemnly and silently forgiving him once again. He gazes at you sadly then turns the corner and disappears out of your sight.
Time passes, birds chatter and the jasmin blossoms shift in a lazy wind around your feet, brushing past your toes. You close your eyes. The look on your face is sincere, serene, silent, sobering... I have never seen you more beautiful.
A beauty so ferocious...The weeks that follow are opaque. Filled with that numbing apathy you felt before he entered. Contentment comes, but never happiness. A silence fills the place your soul was and it shows, my darling. Your fur looses it's sheen, your hair becomes coarse to the touch, your eyes red, puffy and always trained to the floor. You need to release all this unknown anguish, but I don't think you know how. You have always been so reserved, so careful in placing emotions. I have never seen you cry.
It slid up up on us quietly. Your days continued as normal -- handing out mulberry or rose sherbert to your companions in those delicate engraved glasses, resting amongst the cushions, talking to the other womens of matters that did not concern men, making sure everything about you was perfect and my darling, it always was. You were always the most ferociously beautiful. In the end it was perhaps your downfall.
The resistance came and slaughtered your family. Children left at the side of roads as everyone fled to neighbouring countries. Brothers and husbands dangling from every tree in the town -- a reminder to us all. I don't think you expected it. The day I came to take you, you were eating salep dondurma with the others, as if nothing had changed, nothing was different, there was no fire in the hills.
At first you were confused but after I explained through matters of motion, you quickly understood. I took you to our parent's room where they had crouched on the ground infront of me. Two stains still remained on the silken carpet. (Your eyes avoided that patch of floor, I noticed.) I don't know what the servants had done with them, I doubt you did either. You were so cold, my beautiful, so cold...
A life so silent...We took you to Paris and I bought you an apartment there. I filled it with the reminders of home. Cushions and curtains supporting your fall and blocking out what was to come. Mother's parrot tulip brooch lifted and dropped with your breathing, I watched that brooch for hours... Its frills lined with rubies, glittering in the dull light cast from the dusty -blocked- Time passed slowly, up in that room. You sat quietly, twisting, turning, churning, yearning silently, so silently.
I left you there, I left you and your grandeur. Your inability to see the change that was afoot. My open armed offers had been accepted as softly and silently as whispering barley and it made me ferocious in temper. Your silence, your acceptance, your agreement, your apathy! My anger left marks but by then your beauty had waned. It was as distant as a memory. It was nothing but a memory. Your beauty has fled, along with your interests, your love of life and your passion. You became so ugly to me with your soft acceptance of the horror to come.
And since I have not seen you, dear sister. I know not if you still live in that dusty, dreay, dead apartment above the sewers of Paris. The poet, the war and I have taken everything from you and yet we have given you so much. You refuse to believe it. You still hide behind your velvet curtains and shut out the light. The poet gave you freedom, the war gave you oppertunity and I... I gave you a new life above Paris. I bought you jewels, I gave you silk and organza to dress your body in. You still don't see...
Your life is so silent now. It beats weakly like the heart of a sick mouse. No one can love you, my dear. You sit in the dark... Forever searching... Forever hunting... Your is a neverending tale of yearning. And no one can help you.
(Just to keep you going until I do a better one.)
Name: Yearsha Selim
Alias:Sha to friends.
Eye color: Heavy-dark brown.
Pelt color: Grey.
Other markings: Fingernail and scratch scars on small of back and top of tail.
Virtues: Levelheaded in stressful situations. Little or no temper.
Vices: Unwilling to act. Afraid of change.
Personality: Tired, accepting, very quiet.
Family: Murdered apart from her brother.
Love: Once loved by a poet, never a love like it again.
Brief HistoryYearsha Selim. Born of Frederik and Moyska Selim in July 1796. She started life as a young princess, being brought the most beautiful flowers and expensive gifts from all suitors across the land. Or at least their parents. Planned marriages were popular at this point in time and Yearsha became one of the many young heartaches of the unsuitable and suitable alike. She was brought up under strict ruling by her mother which led to an extremely high standard of manners in herself. She was accepted and immediatly loved by the women of the house for her beauty and her ways with words.
Yup, pretty brief. I'm not writing her biography. Want more? Neomail me for an RP. (;
Friends and Family
FriendsShe has none, for her world is in this dusty room and no one has shown her the way out...
Neomail me for an RP.
Adopted FamilyHoneydrips: She recognised Yearsha's beauty the moment she joined this adopted family. The same way birds of a feather flock together, Honey and 'Sha remain inseprable. Honey rekindled the joy of being amongst other women, she nurtured and helped 'Sha to open the curtains and gaze upon a new world... It's still early days, but it looks like Honey is on the way of helping a tired aisha open her eyes.
Yeasayer: He has done little to aid Yearsha. If anything he's antagonised the withdrawl. He is loud, overly happy and too much of a sunny creature for Yearsha's sun-beached fur. However they are perhaps linked in that Yeasayer is the last of a species and Yearsha is the last of a race...
WB: WB remains an incessant pox on the unhappy and brings nothing but misery and repulsion to Yearsha. Her strict upbringing make it impossible for her to tell him exactly how she feels however, as men are above women in her world. He finds little interest in her because of her lack of reaction to his tasteless jokes and sly ways.
LoveThe hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
The Falling of the Leaves
Although her first love was forced and her second love moved on to greener pastures, Yearsha remains quite nonchelant about love. Her world is a softly accepting one and easy to enter. She will acknwledge your love, although to win her affections you must try to replace what has been lost, and that is a much harder task than you may think. If you think you are up to the task of rekindling this grey aisha's soul, neomail me.
A PoetTHERE is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
Because it was your prayer
Recovered him upon the bed of death.
For your sole sake -- that all heart's ache have known,
And given to others all heart's ache,
From meagre girlhood's putting on
Burdensome beauty -- for your sole sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
A young man when the old men are done talking
Will say to an old man, 'Tell me of that lady
The poet stubborn with his passion sang us
When age might well have chilled his blood.
Vague memories, nothing but memories,
But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.
The certainty that I shall see that lady
Leaning or standing or walking
In the first loveliness of womanhood,
And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,
Has set me muttering like a fool.
You are more beautiful than any one,
And yet your body had a flaw:
Your small hands were not beautiful,
And I am afraid that you will run
And paddle to the wrist
In that mysterious, always brimming lake
Where those What have obeyed the holy law
paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged
The hands that I have kissed,
For old sake's sake.
The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
Broken Dreams - William Bulter Yeats
The End of a Chapter...
Omnom aisha adoptsMade out of awesome? I don't know. Customs are open, trades are preferred, rules to the left apply, also one per person per month, please. (:
Custom count: 2
To pick up your custom, take the code in the box and replace PETNAME with your pets name (on the adoptable) in lowercase (eg. shocking_wb, cachoo87348, yearsha etc)