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    ลำดับตอนที่ #12 : ส่งงานครับ : Ice Rain [รูปท้องฟ้าตอนกลางคืน]

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    Pictured above, Night Sky No. 5, an oil painting made in 1992 by Vija Celmins; in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art, New York Winter Night, a poem by Attila József (born 11 April, 1905; died 3 December, 1937) Summerburns away.A single ash tremblesabove clumps of black earth.The land is silent.The air is like glass.Twigs scratch it.Nothing is human. Beautiful. A smallsilver rag, a tatterhangs from a bush and stiffens.Smiles and embraces get caughtin the tangled branches of the world. Like gnarled, old hands, the mountains tremble, far away.They get tired holding up the fires of sunset and the silence that circles the valley and the moss, catching its breath. A field-hand walks home.The earth drags every bone in his body down and on his shoulder a cracked hoe walks with him.The handle bleeds, the metal bleedsand it’s as if he walks home out of existence.His body heavy,the tool heavier. Night streams like smoke from a chimneyand the stars fly up like sparks. A bell tolls and steel-blue darknesscovers the earth like a flood,and it’s as if the heart stoppedand something kept the pulse goingsomething other than death,as if the winter night, the winter sky, the winter rock is the bell and the earth’s the tongue, the wrought-iron earth, swinging, heavy.And the heart’s the sound. Remember the sound?  The mind does.Winter hammers and locksthe sky’s open hatchthat poured out fruit, wheat, light and the hay all summer long. Winter night glowslike this thought. Dark, silver silencelocks the moon to the world. A crow flies across cold space.The silence cools.  Do my bones hear it?Molecules collide. Is there anything in store windowsor museums that shines like this night? A branch raises a dagger, attacks the frost and a black sigh rises in the desert.A flock of crows sways in the fog. A freight train, a small winter nightin the night, reaches the open countryand the teeming stars coil foreverand burn out in the smoke of the engine. Winter light, like a mouse,scurries across the roofsof the freight cars, glazed with ice. Winter steamsover the cities.The yellow rays of the nightcome in on flashing tracksover blue frost. Winter light sets up shopin the city and forgesthe knives that’ll run through you. Lamplight pourslike muddy hay on the slums,and on a cornera coat shivers. It’s a man.  He shrinkslike the earth but it doesn’t help.Winter crushes his feet. A rust-colored treeleans out of the darkness,and I look at the winter nightthe way a man looks at somethingthat belongs to him. (translated from the Magyar by Steven Polgar)
     







     
    แถมครับ
     
     

    ส่งงานแบบช๊อกๆ =[ ]= !!!!
    รูปนี้พวกนี้หายากมาก

    โหวตหน่อยนะครับ : 
    มีอะไรต้งแก้มั้ย ??? : 
    รูปน้อยหน่อยขอโทษนะครับ TT^TT : 
    ขอบคุณครับ : 
     
     


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