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To the crazy ones
This is an homage,
For all great findings
They have granted us.
Bygones be bygones,
Let’s enter this age
For there is nothing
That can stop progress.
To those geniuses
Those who were outcast,
Who fought the uses
And stood atop the mast.
To the crazy ones,
Those we can’t forget,
Those who change the world,
Here’s to all of you.
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Huh. A poem without rhymes, imagine that…
Can you guess what has inspired meto write this? #LittleRiddle
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Depuis que je suis né du ventre de ma mère,
Jamais je n’ai pu faire ou vouloir autrement
Que de suivre les pas de mon illustre frère,
Sans même protester, toujours docilement.
Pourtant je ne rêve que d’avoir une marge,
D’avoir à ce crayon l’équivalente gomme,
De ne pas devenir de l’arbre simple pomme,
De ne plus être enfant prisonnier de ses langes.
.
*
‘Si vis pacem para bellum’
Says the sage man in his wisdom,
For it is useless decorum
To try keep apeace each kingdom.
*
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It’s not your dress, though it suits you like a princess,
It’s not your shoes, though they do embellish your dress,
Not your necklace, which sparkles as bright as your eyes
Nor your makeup, your scarlet lips and your fair skin,
.
It’s not your hair, warm chestnut cascading in waves,
It’s not your nose, though that of an Egyptian queen,
It’s not your legs, graceful and soft and athletic,
Not your hands, soft and delicate, nimble and quick,
.
It’s not your mind, of thoughts beautiful treasure trove,
Not your accent, rolling sexily on your tongue,
Nor your kindness, treating right those you live among,
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It’s not the way you fancy looking at me my dear,
That is not the purpose of what I’m saying here,
Neither ’tis your smile, nor your undying love.
.
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There is a dancer, high up in the stars
Coming and going, floating like the wind,
He turns and whirls to forget his scars,
None know exactly what he is trying to find.
.
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She looks at me, I too look at her,
Her lips sensuous red, so are her eyes,
Oh things will never be as they were,
My heart broken from her muffled cries.
On her gentle face rolls a lone tear,
I’m trying but -useless- she won’t hear,
I feel helpless, simple bystander,
As if, of my very own body
I was but a helpless passenger;
All my words feel so very shoddy.
I can’t help but see her raw beauty
Or how strong she is in her weakness,
For in the midst of all this bleakness
She stands proud, fulfilling her duty.
She looks at me, I too look at her,
Her lips shake, I hear her voice waver,
Still she goes on, doesn’t hesitate
Despite the whole wide world she could hate.
As her head is filled with memories
Of joys, sadness and sometimes worries,
Still she goes on, no hesitation,
Dancing in the fires of passion.
She sings about happiness, past times,
Floating in these melancholy chimes.
.
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In the pond the water flows,
Streaming gently as it goes.
In the leaves a slight wind blows,
Spreading out a scent of rose.
.
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If I could, oh I would climb atop a mountain,
Which one, I do not care, despite fatigue or pain,
Once up there, high above all, my head in the clouds,
Where this white veil over the earth is like a shroud,
I would shout into the sky, I would scream to the world,
My fears, my anger, my joys, my love, all would be hurled,
I’d put my heart into voice and let it carry
I’d pour my soul and rejoice from my new aerie.
.
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I had my heart upon hand
But, following your caprices,
Oh sadly you took it from me,
And now I am hurting.
I had my heart upon hand,
But you broke it into pieces.
I would have given it to thee,
And now I have nothing…
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If nature is a temple,
Birthing in its arms ample
Why do we ever trample
Everyone of her samples?
*
If nature is our mother
Why can’t we come to love her
As we would no other
And not just let her wither?
*
And if nature is our home
It is not only our own,
We must not let this grand dome
Become one upon we frown.
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