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.

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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…

PWE – 0 – The Fog

The whiteness was bright. Silent and bright. And yet it seemed as if his mind was surrounded by ink black darkness and noises so loud they would shatter his sanity any second now. It was one, then the other, one and the other, bright and dark, bright or dark, noisy or silent, noisy and silent… It was impossible to define, all at once and yet nothing at all, at the same time and alternatively. As if the rules of reality had been completely thrown away and had been randomly replaced. The strangest thing was the feeling it procured. It wasn’t one of fear or loss, he wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t happy, he wasn’t anything actually… He was… content…? He? It couldn’t even know if it was a he anymore, it didn’t know anything, all it was was content, inside and out. It always had been and always would be, forever. Forever. That was a long time, a very long time. And yet it felt as if it had passed in the time it took it to formulate this thought. An eternity. A second. No difference, all the same in the face of the whiteness.

It moved. Strange. How could it know it had moved? And yet, it had felt itself stir. Something that had not been part of its reality for a long time… Or had it ever been part of its reality? It couldn’t say… And yet it stirred, again. A thought popped in its mind. A thought? How? Sound. There was a sound. Not the silence, not the noise, something else. A distinct sound. What it was, he could not say. No, wait… it? He? It was confused. How… Why… Slowly, ever so slowly, thoughts seemed to pop back into his mind. One by one, an eternity at a time. Back? Why back? Why not just pop? What had happened before? Before what? What was now? What was then? White. Now was white. But before… before was not white? It couldn’t say. Something was happening but it couldn’t say what, it was still far too sleepy, far to content in this whiteness to even try to stir again. It stopped doing whatever it was and waited again, content. And again it stirred. Stronger this time and from a place he couldn’t say. He? Again? Why? The noise happened once more, that strange noise it had heard earlier. What was going on?

Then everything accelerated. Stir, content, noise, content, feel, hear, content, think, remember, content, colour, move, fear, content, music, happy, hungry, world, big, content, tears, crying, laughing, hot, fire, why, content, white, black, eat, run, fly, wonder, magic, content, ask, stir, smell, taste, love, life… Colours were flying everywhere, merging into themselves, the whiteness had been taken over, content wasn’t the only one anymore, there were so many others. Others what? He couldn’t say. He? Yes, he, not it. So many others and only one him. Only one him but made of all the others. How? Why? Questions were bustling in his mind as the whiteness and the silence around his merged with the others, colours, sounds, smells, memories, feelings, things! All at once and yet over the course of another eternity. How could he tell how long an eternity was? The drum. It beat twice every eternity. Loud and proud. It beat and it never stopped. He couldn’t understand what was happening and yet it all seemed to make sense somehow and it made him stir again, more this time. He stirred again and again, slowly but surely. Everything seemed to accelerate and become louder and more vivid, it span faster and faster to the point he couldn’t even tell anything apart from itself. He couldn’t even see the colours, not even hear the sound, not even feel the feeling or remember the memories…

And then it went black. And white again. At the same time. And or. Or and. It happened all at once and over the course of many eternities. That’s when it came. The one he knew would come and had been beginning to fear as he expected it. The never. It came all proud and slow, like a king. It came and gently took his hand and smiled down to him before spreading its wings and flying off, dragging him in tow. He felt no wind, heard no bird, saw no sun, just content. Once more, all was content. White…


The beginning of a new story, maybe…

To kill a mockingbird

.

A bullet to the head

Might be the easy way,

A dagger to the heart

Would test your sanity,

As they lie on the bed

And in your hands held sway

Complete and true as art,

Blossoms a vanity

Never quite before felt

Or surely never thought,

A firm hand to the throat

Or this forsaken belt

Tied in a swift, firm knot –

One last ironic note –

The paths ahead are score

And their ways still wilder,

Yet only one, no more,

May reach the Great Builder;

A good rope to the feet

Could drag them to their meet…

.


No pithy for the pain whirl.

Molten

.

Molten glass becomes a heart

If breathed into carefully,

Hope wakes it up with a start

For the whole world to discover;

Molten heart becomes aglass

Waiting to be filled with folly,

What should think then the young lass

Of the promised grand lover?

Every beat into pieces

Lay shattered on the ground,

Neither shall know what peace is

Until they recognize the sound

Of what has yet to be broken –

Within the vale truth lies spoken.

.


They shall bite or be bitten, they shall smite or be smitten, they shall write or be written.

Entre vous et moi

.

ça va, ça vient,

c’est fait de tout

et de tout petits riens,

la où la clé est passe partout;

il fait si froid dehors,

l’hiver semble installé,

ou bien est-ce mon corps

qui devient cheminée ?

je sens le feu brûler

dans ce profond bassin,

les bûches se consument,

crépitant toutes en chœur,

et le grand feu qu’allume

à tort, ou a dessein,

l’index dissimulé

me promet sa liqueur –

car si l’accord majeur

est formulé en soupir

par des lèvres enfiévrées,

tes mots sont bien songeurs

et lorsque tu respires

je te sens enivrée

par toute la douceur

que je peux délivrer

des chaînes de tissus

que chers ont recouvré;

suis-je un bon danseur ?

car de nous est issu

ce bon et franc parler,

de ces incantations

mille fois répétées

des océans perlés

d’îles aux frais vergers

naissent sans s’arrêter

et j’y vois, reflétées,

passions et tentations

en myriades de coloris

mûrir sous la main du berger…

pour un, pour deux,

pour trois, pour cent,

pour tous, pour eux,

avec ou sans,

je les vois qui chantent et rient

et gardent précieusement ce toit

également pour vous émois.

.


Tout à fait.

Me, afloat

.

I’ll find my way

I shall never give up

 

Over mounts and valleys

As high as the heavens

As deep as the old well,

Across forests and seas,

 

Never, I shall never give up

And I will find my way

 

Through days by the sevens

Nights even deeper still

And minutes born to kill,

Like a bat out of hell;

Upon a creaking stage

Runs this desertly ink

In sinews of fever

Carried by the young page.

 

I swear I’ll find my way

Down this path or the next

I can never give up

 

Along each, every link

Of this prisonless cell

– Gone, gone, gone, with the bell –

‘Cause I’m a believer…

 

Never, I want never give up

I’ll find my way to you…

.


See ya later, ‘gator.

O

.

The beach is mirror of my soul

For just as the waves calmly caress

Over and over, with passionate patience,

It’s soft yet coarse shapeless skin

And help the sands forget

That it runs as it flies,

Out of time and in the eyes,

That it breaks in the hands of a child

And tears away in brine and salt

Under the smile of the sun,

I cannot remember when I was born.

.

The Thing

.

No shape or form

Has the monster under the bed,

Both light and shadow it has shed;

Never quite here, never quite there,

Never quite seen, as thin as air,

Yet there is something in the dark,

There must be, there has to;

A haunting ghost or a clown-shark

Watching me – it is true,

Waiting and biding time, soundlessly.

Because if it is not, if it is a lie,

If it is not there or if it has gone,

If it has never been, essentially, sly,

Then I am mad or a fool, boundlessly…

And strangely I would rather believe

This odd, scary story that I weave

Rather than there be none

To keep me warm.

.


When there’s something strange

In the neighbourhood…

who?

Stairway to haven

.

The Blue Empress has died;

Her body has been found

In her private chambers

Not three full nights agone,

A poison dagger pried

From deep a heartless wound,

Near the cooling ember

Her gem bracelet forgone,

None has seen but a shade –

None has heard but a breath,

Know the thief’s intentions

Are not by breathing soul,

The guardians of the Spade

Have been by lordly wreath

Summoned to bring sanctions

Down until ashen coal…

Devious mind, beware :

The Blue Empress’s heir

Shall answer to your prayer;

A fool were you to dare.

.


Dita Meza mi kedje Manvay !