.
The fly does not move, it does not breathe;
One wing spread, the other torn,
Who deeply yearns for a crown never worn
As the blade, dulled by ages, slips on its sheath.
The scene is over, the act is ended,
And while the moment, sunlit into clay,
Is allowed to stretch on and on and play
This Carmen is vague and faint, rather scrawl;
Hearty guts or gutted heart? They are offended.
Fortunately, all is ebbed away apiece at curtain-fall.
.
Counting one’s treasure is the true.
.
I cannot feel the sea anymore;
The wild soothing breath of the waves
Shaking me at my very core,
And the fires in the misty caves
Casting shadows over cold walls
For lonely hearts to feed their visions.
I cannot hear its ancient calls;
How then will this grim indecision
Plaguing vessels which carry life
Be lifted over Poseidon’s house
If Day and Night play cat and mouse
And husbands can’t yet see their wife…?
Where have you gone my dear mother?
Of your flowing gown and all its pearls
Remains nothing after the ebb…
In the mirror of the sky’s infinite web
Twisting, turning, it spins and whirls,
Proudly patient, ever waiting for each other.
.
Love your craft and conversely.
.
Il n’y a plus d’après tant il y a de l’avant;
Qu’elle est douce la victoire
En ce dimanche de novembre.
Echo d’un siècle ou un siècle de co ?
La question peut faire sourire,
Mais quand passe un an en une unique seconde
Et qu’un instant dure une éternité,
Lorsque vient le moment, fatidique et puissant,
Nul n’est préparé pour une telle réalité;
Un homme qui pleure est considéré
Comme la plus belle des douleurs.
.
Après l’épopée, la longue bataille,
Si les gouttes de pluie et de soleil
Partagent à chacun de ses soldats
Le goût doux-amer de la quête achevée,
Ce sont des membres endoloris
Qui giguent dans une marre de sens
Que l’on supplie, que l’on somme, de saluer en passant
Pour entrendre, juste une dernière fois, leur voix s’élever.
.
De cet amas de terres et pierres –
Assis, debouts – merveilles se sont dressées.
On eût beau n’espérer que le tier
De ces poings fièrement levés
Que ni badaud ni roi ni dieu
N’eût vu son sourire se tarir,
Mais quand l’or des fous coule à flot
Dans les vivants murmures des vents
Et qu’un million de pièces d’âmes
Se lâchent corps en cris de coeurs,
C’est la force d’un peuple qui se clâme.
.
Un peuple au armes de nature
Veillant sur mille et une nuit,
Resplendissant de ces rares couleurs
Qui dépassent les contours,
En un endroit, en un moment,
Vivant les aides, chassant l’ennui.
.
L’incroyable s’est produit,
Que de zéros, que de héros.
.
Pour des gens nuls qui font des trucs nuls pour d’autres gens nuls. C’est nul. <3
.
There are words that are said in the silence of the night
Silent words, fire words,
Words that would ashen any man’s heart,
Words that would crumble an Empire
If uttered before the great tenebra,
Though when all souls have passed the pale threshold
Of the kingdom of the Moon
Along the lifeless lake, in the quiet hour,
When battles are silenced and men’s hearts lay still,
When the soft brushing of a drop against skin
Resonates up to the highest heavens and down to the deepest hells,
In those moments of emptiness
As quiet as they are lone,
There are words,
Ancient words, iron words,
Words such as the earth has never born before,
Word before dawn, before clay, before dust,
Beware of those words
For they forget and they betray
And may never repair that there which has been torn,
Words of madness, words of wisdom,
Strange and eternal, lies though never dead.
.
We are more than we are, we are one.
.
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…
.
Ahem.
.
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.
.
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.
*
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 ♫
*
.
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:
