Un choeur en chantier


L’écho d’un pas sur le pavé

Suffit à l’oreille attentive,

Nul besoin du cri entravé

De l’âme un moment encore vive,


Pourtant l’esprit doute du coeur

Qui déjà a sonné l’alarme,

Et c’est sous le glas de la peur

Que la voix devient si belle arme;


Si près et si incroyablement for

Pourtant trop loin pour nous être crédible,

Tramblante est la belle sous l’effort

S’agenouillant devant l’inaudible.


Qui prie sous le poids d’une foi ne plie sous celui d’une autre. – Inconnu




A deep grave in the fingers,

As the cold sets in

I wish only but to sleep…


Tombe la vie de mes doigts,

Et le froid s’immisce

Je ne souhaite que sommeil…





Hemlock in a bind, torn about the wrists,

Trapped in a gilded safe shackled to ropes of stone,

A black horse of turns and twists enthralls the frightened waif

Attempting to atone for her struggles and strife.

Tis freedom chased from life,

There are those of one mind whose faithless soul has gone,

What visage do they adorn? A silent lake of water still

Brings a strange glow to the mire,

The great hunt shall again go on far into the lights of morn;

To those whom chase beyond free will

Hope shall never be but fire.


Guarded is the lone heart against freedom tossed

However at what cost ?


Ghost riders in the sky follow the red sun.

Invitation au repos


Oh qu’elles sont belles nos amours échouées sur le sable chaud

Lorsque la marée vient lécher doucement nos pieds,

Qu’elles sont orgueilleuses les délices de l’été

A la lumière diaphane des flots sur le ciel reflétée,

Et quelles délicieuses orgues de félicité

Que les barbaries qui roucoulent à mes oreilles

Alors que la plus belle des reines, la douce abeille

Qui butine mes nuits et virevolte pareille

Au crayon de rouille et de suie dansant sur du papier,

Boit les gouttes de pluie qui filent entre les feuilles de mon coeur artichaut,

Nous enlaçons nous ? Nous en lassons-nous ? Nous en laissons-nous ?

Que de fils à délier, que de fils à tisser, pour cette mer qui nous dénoue.


Il y a parfois, en quelques mots, plus de beauté cachée aux sens se révélant l’âme, qu’en cent tirades ascérées ou en mille pages éclairées.

Alas, well…


This one is for the lost wherever they be found

This one is for the tossed from heavens to the ground

This one is a simple call to the better days

A bandage on the scar that has long not opened

It is as ominous to those who are threatened

As it is life-saving to the great fool that prays

There is little to be yet still less said than gone

This one is for those who seek the unseekable

And for all of those who sink the unthinkable

This is the legacy of all that has been done

By the poet, in truth, by their hand and their heart

Despite the gears of steel that revolve moon and sun

Around the earthy plain in attempts to outsmart

The reader and their no-good, very bad sense of fun…


♪ It’s made of teeny tiny nothings ♫


In the life-threads of Charlotte


On the roof of my old house,

Atop the rows of red tiles,

There lived a spider for a while.

It wasn’t quite big, nor small,

Just the right size, all in all,

It had eyes like the night sky

And strong legs shaped like eyebrows,

It could jump real mighty high

And it was as dark as crows.

Sometimes I would find art weaves

Made of the finest of silks

And of pearled water and leaves,

It tasted as sweet as milk

In the morning at sunrise;

During summer, the soft breeze

Would make the finer threads hum;

During winter it would freeze,

Break away under my thumb.

But when the next day awoke

To the warming sound of smoke,

The strange art would be reborn

Without anger, without scorn;

This had always been routine

From early childhood to teen,

So imagine my surprise

When on my great big birthday

No singing portrait shone down

For, much to my own dismay,

The roof spider and her gown

Had left long before morn dowse…


Many years later,

I have heard say that my old friend, after moving from roof to roof,

had found one of her own.


Very proudly written with a heart beating to the sound of this small wonder:

Through an icy eye I see the sea.


Not quite a harsh pain this firework of the chest,

Although the myriad of colour cannot be seen

The melody echoes throughout the silent space.

Rows upon rows of madness-in-a-box

Where void fills void during the long twilight,

Industrial and forgettable instantaneity –

Fingers upon a chalkboard and bleeding nails.

Somewhere, somewhen, an Asphodelian wails

But it does not move the heart of such a deity;

Look! there comes the rest in a queer half-flight,

Eyes aflame or stolen by the wicked Nox,

There is this eerie gash in their romantic pace

As they seek but may never truly convene;

Ruby and silver and gold weigh nothing to those who rest.


Sigrid – High Five

Who am I?


I take what is full and give back emptiness,

I give out what is warm and take back the cold,

Some follow me, some chase me,

To the ends of the world and back,

Others flee at my sight, some weep

And some cry, some laugh

And some try to capture me

But as the golden cage around the young bird

It is they who are trapped,

And though they know nothing of it

They still despair.

I give all that is mine, yet always reclaim it,

I ferry the lost souls along this harsh journey

Yet reap the ripened fruits with silky fingers

Until the lands are barren

And only salted rivers are left.

Always away, always there,

I am Life, I am Death, I am War, I am Time,

Never far, never near,

I am many-faced, I am almighty,

Though yet I am feeble as an old woman

And all that look at me know who I am,

Sometimes perhaps, but surely ever,

I am Space, I am Love, I am True, I am More,

Very indeed, or whatever in-between,

I am; and there you are.


The answer you seek, you will find it in the question you ask.

PWE – 1.1

The morning fog was still densely packed over the city when Hector walked out into the backyard of the house. Or, more accurately, the patch of barren land that made do as a backyard which he had bought along with the small and plain three-roomed habitation that was his home at the moment. He had bought it from a poor old woman who had decided to go live in the inner rings of the city after the death of her husband. The hovel, for it had been more a hovel than a real house, as it barely seemed to be able to protect anything from the harsh winter weathers, had not been ideal, but having a place to call home was a luxury to many so he had not shunned this opportunity. A few weeks of hard work had sufficed to turn it into a cozy enough place to live comfortably, if he could call his life comfortable. At least he had a roof to sleep under and a job to provide enough to eat and to live better than most, if not well, and on top of that he managed to save some of his earnings. It would take years at the rate it was going, but if all went well he would one day achieve his dream: owning an inn.

For now though he was still a simple field worker, tending to the lands of richer men than he. He sighed at the thought and began his daily routine, stretching out his limbs to wake his body up from the grogginess of sleep. The air was humid and fresh but not cold, the small patches of grass in what he called his garden were pearled with water and he could feel the soft earth bend slightly under his feet. The sun had barely risen over the horizon, not that he could see it anyway through the dense misty air, which meant he still had a full hour before it was time to go. He groaned sleepily as he switched position and bent his limbs in ways most people could not. He maintained his flexibility by exercising each morning, all in the hopes of retaining as much of his physical abilities in his old age. He was barely thirty one but people did not tend to live very long in his world, rarely more than twice as old, and when one did, most of the time it was not a pretty sight.

Half an hour passed as Hector moved his limbs slowly but deftly and with intent and purpose. Extending his muscles, warming his joints, controlling his breath and calming his mind. He liked feeling every little part of his flesh and bones tingling as he finished his exercise, it made him feel alive. As he opened his eyes again he noticed two things: the first one was that the fog had begun dissipating, letting him almost see the blue of the sky, the second one was a faint shadow in the distance and a soft groan he almost swore was his imagination. But he could see it, small and stumbling, it seemed to move in his direction. He immediately tensed, cursing in his short but dense brown beard. At least it didn’t seem to be a beast, Lum knew what dangerous and ferocious beasts roamed at the edge of the outer ring! That was part of the reason he had gotten the house for such a cheap price. It had the shape of a human being, a child even, but he wasn’t so foolish he would trust what he saw, he had heard enough to know it was never good to be careless. He swiftly grabbed his axe and stood his ground as he waited for the unknown being to approach, each footstep barely echoing on the soft ground.

But it never came. Instead, as it seemed to be about to walk out of the mist, he heard a thud. He blinked to focus and realized the shadow had disappeared. Cursing again, louder this time, he took a step back while looking around and was about to walk inside when he heard another soft groan from the direction he had seen the silhouette. He hesitated. Damn it! You stupid idiot!, he chastised himself as remembered the fundamental law of the wild: never hesitate. Act or don’t, but never, ever linger. Lingering meant pain, or worse, death… He took in a deep breath and decided. He took a tentative step forward, looking around him for any sign of danger and hardened his grip on the wooden handle. Seeing no immediate threat he took another one, and another. It was slow but finally he reached the place where he had last seen the silhouette and gasped as he saw a young child, no more than nine or ten, lying face first on the patch of grass.

Sic transit gloria mundi


Sous un pont de pierre noire

Arquebouté vers les cieux

Étincelle un vivant miroir

D’un oeil quoique vif et malicieux,

Caché dans ses belles entrailles

Un vieil esprit se meut parmi les flots

Et dépose sur le vitrail

A l’azur nacré, son blanc halo –

La charrue des ans trace son chemin

Et la pierre s’effrite à chaque demain,

Pourtant l’ouvrage millénaire

Dans un galant et lent élan

Courbe l’échine sous la masse

De la poix imaginaire

Sans arrêt exhalant

Ses douces-heureuses amours contumaces

Mais, tel même que le roseau de la fable,

Il ne rompt point –

Nul ne prétend savoir avec certitude

Mais d’aucuns disent qu’il fut oint

Jadis d’eau sacrée et de rais célestes,

Et que depuis, de son infinie altitude,

Le fier astre en atteste.


Gare au troll qui y vit…