Il y a quelques jours

A l’aube de l’hiver

Ce rêve m’est venu :

Un homme de papier

D’encre et de belles lettres

Est venu me chanter

La ballade des ans.

J’ai pu entendre monts

Et vaux, par mille brises,

Les ruisseaux du passé

Sifflant en tisses-rêve

La belle décadence

D’un astre sans pareil,

Des chœurs de sanglots longs

Aux vieux corps de ficelle,

De violentes caresses

De sucre poivre-et-sel,

Et tant d’autres splendeurs

Qui jamais par la suite

N’ont retenti en moi

Sans que les bras dorés

De ce pale Morphée

Ne m’enlacent aigrement;

Mais parmis tout ces cors

Et cœurs éclairs jadis

Courant et sautillant,

Virevoltant ici

Et là-bas ou bien hors,

Mon âme n’a point pu

Revivre ces ébats

De couleurs et de sens,

Couleuvres et d’essence,

Et seul quand par ces mots

Mon vieil ami finit

Son aubade esseulée

Ai-je senti couler

L’ultime perle d’eau

De ce puits sombre et froid

Que je suis seul à voir :

Si Damoclès a eu

Raison de son épée,

Ockham et son rasoir

Trancheront vos fins fils.


Make of it what you will.




To the problem thereof

Listen to this wise voice:

One day Time will be back

Once again clouds will cry,

And surely will echo

The drum within your hands,

A thousand and one bands

Playing the Young White Doe,

Even the deserts dry

Will regain what they lack,

The Future has no choice

For it is ground to Love.


No prince, no princess, just a dragon and its gold.

Seven days a weak


Monday has come and gone

And Tuesday has passed too,

Tell me, what has night done?

And say, what will it do?

I wish upon Wednesday

For soft rain and some shine,

For that strange pain of mine

To bow before the Sun… Hey,

What if Thursday was lost?

Would Friday make it right,

And, if so, at what cost?

Saturday is in sight,

Yet this sorrow lingers,

I can feel the white sands

Slipping through my fingers;

The messenger still stands –

She will soon come to bay

Not ever to be kept

Not even by Sunday,

Not even if I wept…


I’ll be gone

In a day or two

Un jeu simple

Une nouvelle de ma propre création – à l’origine par écrit et en anglais – ici contée par moi-même.

C’est un test pour moi, une sorte de première sur une voie – celle du conte à l’oral – qui me passionne et que j’aimerais beaucoup explorer à l’avenir.

Vos avis, quels qu’ils soient, seront très appréciés, alors n’hésitez pas à commenter !


Adapté de A Simple Game.



As a stream of melting ice

Flowing from the tip of my lips

To the pit of my guts,

Fear takes me whole and swallows me

And I keep falling,

Down and down its deeps;

Fear of me, fear of you,

Fear of this, of what it could be,

Fear of what it means, and what it doesn’t,

Fear of what I have, fear of when we won’t…

Yet I choose to embrace

Not only this fear but its beautiful frame too

For just as a stream of melting ice

It is so refreshing and makes me feel alive!


No rhymes yet; perhaps one of these days…



High tide is taking over,

The sea has come to shore,

As deep as the darkness

Of her Majesty of Night,

High noon has arisen,

And a bright, burning sun

Melts its golden droplets

Upon the barren lands,

High time is almost past,

And the Silent Lady

And the lord of the house

Will see you now, for

Hell’s bells have been rung –

Watch as they echo through the valley,

High note in the distance;

Hide wherever you can,

Hide wherever you wish,

Help will do you no good.

Although one not righteous,

His is the only way left.

Do tell me, friend,

For curious am I:

Is the toll worth the fare?



In the name of Eman.

Empty vase


There lies an empty vase atop a high counter

Made of glass most fragile though striking to behold

It was home to a colorful sea of undying petals

Eons ago…

Back when the world was wide

And the sun newly shone;

But oceans have since dried, and all clouds have faded

Taking their tears with them unto yet greener lands,

Leaving but a desert of red, dried clay and dust

Neither Hell nor High Water can bring back its rhythm.

So lies the empty vase, field of nones and nevers,


On the verge of a fall down a slow precipice,


Yet brimming a thousand hue each daybreak;

Oh let the hand which breaks be broken in return –

Oh let the ichor run along such pearly husk –

Oh let the deep scars heal over the long years –

For the vase lies pure white upon the tainted glove.


Something akin or akind.

Tragedy in three acts


darreski fau novaciek

piu estro eti nereo,

o põla, o põla?

vejnhobra aqui stereo –

domen e nikivaciek.


ciume fai gmesk fiat

antebene vi sol-amwa,

o põla, ¡o põla!

xuen ohnbefau epiatt

vonvar piu se dor-amwa;


tibrod peleïv moss y

fabridago nue ai querzia.

o põla, o põla…

am nodo fi setzia

tibrod aguajda do vosci.


A mystery is only as deep as the shroud that surrounds it.

For a few more


Ain’t no grave can hold my body down,

Ain’t no moonlight gonna drape me in its gown,

Ain’t no high sea deep enough to make me drown;

I should know for I have long trodden –

Ages past and eons through –

Among those higher cast, among the rotten,

When all is false that becomes true;

Ain’t no body down can hold my grave,

Ain’t no body up can splinter this trave,

Ain’t no stranger’s hand which may engrave;

But mine.

– Oh the wine

Tastes so sweet –

But yours.

– Drink it quick! Before it sours…

T’will be gone in a beat. –

But one.

There ain’t no king can wear my dirty crown,

There ain’t no grave can hold my body down.

But one.



But one.

Nothing is harder than a diamond


A diamond begins in the rough,

Hidden from all under the earth;

Sole are the eyes of the jeweler

As they set upon which is worth.

Just like a journey is enough

The goal shall not make man ruler

For in the shadow of small things

Grows the willow and its rains;

A melody with golden strings

Written, washed out – its rust stains,

Illuminates and scents the air

And, when the lips, in gentle blows

Provokes and sustains the long stares

– What is now gone may not be seen

Or what is lost in darkness flows –

Watch as becomes what should have been.


Shine bright like a diamond.