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.




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…


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 !



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.