There is so much sadness, so many hurt souls just looking for the warmth of love. There is darkness that seems to touch everything in its path. I am drowning in the sorrow of it all, can we not find a middle ground? Just give me a place where I can rest from it all, the hate has scarred my heart too deeply.
There is beauty still, above the clouds the sun still shines. There are still stars the glow in the sky, and flowers bloom along with the songs of the birds. In the bitterness and pain of life, there is love and joy. Oh, how I hope that I have the courage to reach for the good in this life, for this present sadness will last for only a moment.
“One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl and four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.” (Some old, british children’s rhyme about magpies that has been stuck in my mind for years.)
I saw a lot of Henry for inktober and jumped on the train- but instead of the usual crows and ravens, I decided to give some attention to a bird that gets lot less appreciation than its older brothers of the ravens- the magpie!
So, well, Henry is trying to teach his little friend how to sing, but even though crows, ravens and magpies belong to the group of singing birds, which contains robins, blue tits and blackbirds too, they are not really the most talented singers.
“One crow for sorrow, Two
crows for joy, Three
crows for a girl, Four
crows for a boy, Five
crows for silver, Six
crows for gold, Seven
crows for a secret, Never to be told. Eight
crows for a wish, Nine
crows for a kiss, Ten
crows for a bird, You must not miss.”
The rhyme has its origins in superstitions connected with magpies, considered a bird of ill omen in some cultures, and in Britain, at least as far back as the early sixteenth century.
On occasion, jackdaws, crows, and other Corvidae are associated with the rhyme also.
Something chattered at them from a nearby branch. It was a magpie. “Good morning, Mister Magpie,” said Agnes automatically. “Bugger off, you bastard,” said nanny, and reached down for a stick to throw. The bird swooped off to the other side of the clearing. “That’s bad luck,” said Agnes. “It will be if I get a chance to aim,” said Nanny. “Cant stand those maggoty-pies.” “‘One for sorrow,’“ said Agnes, watching the bird hop along a branch. “I always take the view there’s prob’ly going to be another one along in a minute,” said Nanny, dropping a stick. “‘Two for joy’?” said Agnes. “It’s ‘two for mirth.’“ “Same thing, I suppose.” “Dunno about that,” said Nanny. “I was joyful when our Jason was born, but I can’t say I was laughin’ at the time. Come on, let’s have another look.” Two more magpies landed on the cottage’s antique thatch. “That’s ‘three for a girl–’“ said Agnes nervously. “‘Three for a funeral’ is what I learned,” said Nanny. “But there’s lots of magpie rhymes…”
– on magpie rhymes |
Terry Pratchett, Carpe Jugulum
Preview:I’m letting this take the place of a summary. Tags are at the bottom. Contact me to be added. Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Warnings: Death, Sorrow
Word Count: 729
It was a warm spring afternoon in the park nestled in uptown New York. The sound of birds singing mingled with the sound of children squealing with joy as their swings sliced through the air, making them feel weightless and alive.
A man in a dark suit walked briskly along the main path that cut through the park clutching a brown paper lunch bag. He paid no mind to the birds or the children as he moved toward his destination. He was also unaware of the man following him.
The Winter Soldier was not someone that one would want following them. His missions were completed with flawless efficiency and precision. He was an assassin with no equal, but being the best never crossed his mind. His mind was devoid of anything other than an objective, which was currently the man in the dark suit.
With nearly silent footsteps, the Winter Soldier moved off the path and into a small forested area. It gave him a perfect view of a small group of benches situated just inside a garden area. His objective was currently sitting on one of the benches and checking the contents of his bag.
There was sadness in everything—in the room, in the ringing bird-calls from the garden, in the lit, golden lawn beyond the window, with its single miraculous cherry-tree breaking in immaculate blossom and tossing long foamy sprays against the sky. She was sad to the verge of tears, and yet the sorrow was rich—a suffocating joy.
The realm of fairy-stories is wide and deep and high and filled with many things: all manner of beasts and birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted; beauty that is an enchantment, and an ever-present peril; both joy and sorrow as sharp as swords. In that realm a man may, perhaps, count himself fortunate to have wandered, but its very richness and strangeness tie the tongue of a traveller who would report them. And while he is there it is dangerous for him to ask too many questions, lest the gates should be shut and the keys be lost.
“The realm of fairy-story is wide and deep and high and filled with many things: all manner of beasts and birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted; beauty that is an enchantment, and an ever-present peril; both joy and sorrow as sharp as swords.”
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl … Three for a girl. I’m stuck on three, I just can’t get any further. My head is thick with sounds, my mouth thick with blood. Three for a girl. I can hear the magpies—they’re laughing, mocking me, a raucous cackling. A tiding. Bad tidings. I can see them now, black against the sun. Not the birds, something else. Someone’s coming. Someone is speaking to me. Now look. Now look what you made me do.
The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight.