Ad Luminum


A cold and silent winter rain

Falls under these strangely cloudless skies,

Who could divine the godly intent

Concealed behind this Rubicon of tears?

Perhaps then, in the end, shall

Come words for which I yearn…


Qu’on cille, dont fils…


20 ans après


(Ou presque…)


Inconfortable. De cette expression nonchalante – certains diraient presque noble -, et pourtant nullement à l’aise, il restera toujours une trace sur chaque photo future où j’apparaîtrai au fil des années. Je n’abhorre point cette tradition mais je suis loin de me sentir modèle et ne sais comment me tenir, alors j’attends.

Des cendres de mon style ravageur (chemise, salopette, et mocassins) immolé par l’indifférence sur l’autel de l’adolescence, ne renaîtra un semblant de classe que vers la fin de la deuxième décennie de mon ère. Et cela, principalement sous l’impulsion “classique” d’une petite amie. Cette nouvelle vague perdurera jusqu’à nos jours, à défaut de continuité sentimentale.

Le visage s’allongera, les joues se creuseront un peu et les cheveux s’assombriront, finissant même par s’effacer presque entièrement. Mais les cernes – poches de temps perdu sous les fenêtres de l’âme – sont dès lors, d’ores et déjà mes blessures de guerre à moi. Ni un regret, ni une honte, elles portent l’étendard de mon identité autant que je les porte, elles.

A l’instar du couple que sont ce jardin, flou en arrière plan, et ce banc, quelque peu grossier mais droit, et dont le premier va grandir, fleurir et se métamorphoser avec les âges passant, tandis que le second les traversera avec pour seule marque de changement cette couche de mousse qui s’y déposent, je grandis, je change, et je me transforme, mais je reste aussi pareil à cet enfant : légèrement perdu malgré son apparence peu commode, et pourtant content d’être là.


Texte ébauché en atelier d’écriture et retravaillé par la suite.

Thin ice on the lake


The weather is indeed nice

But this soft gale does entice

In me one of my darker vice:

A heart dancing on thin ice.

I twirl and spin, I flash a smile,

I run, I jump, all in style,

Fearing the fall all the while,

And yet going the extra mile

Just to watch the raven’s flight

In the deepest, starry night,

Always from a distant sight

For I remain the one-who-might…


My body is water.

Tout ce qui est perdu


Tout ce qui est perdu

Peut-être retrouvé.

Ce que temps a mordu

Doit bien être éprouvé,

Qu’importe qu’il efface

Jusqu’à l’ultime trace,

La douleur dans l’attente

Est toujours la plus vive,

Même depuis la rive

De verdure éclatante;

Et à défaut de verve

(Pour peu que cela serve)

Le vieux passeur écoute

– Sa patience infinie –

Toutes vos peurs, vos doutes,

La triste symphonie

Qui un beau jour submerge

L’enfant jouant sur la berge,

Sans jamais dire mot,

Sans chaleur ni froidure,

Comme un frère jumeau

Qui lui aussi endure.


C’est la valse de rêves

Jamais réalisés

Qui apporte une trêve

Au vieux coeur enlisé.



Juliet, oh Juliet,

Do you not hear me avidly singing this ballad?

Juliet, o Juliet,

Do you not see me dancing this foolish step?

Juliet, dear Juliet,

Do you not feel the soft touch of my love on your soul?

Juliet, my Juliet,

Can you not, too, smell our burning passion’s sweet fragrance?

Juliet, say, Juliet,

Will you not allow us to taste the fruit of our efforts?

Juliet, why Juliet…?


Tried to create a possible double-edged poem with this one; one candid reading, and another more… creepy. Not entirely satisfied with the result though…



You have found a notebook on the ground

A bit dusty and a bit old

Open to a page not yet complete

With doodles and scribbles of unknown sense,

You take a moment to contemplate

The strange object lying at your feet –

It is not yours; why is it there, open?

You hesitate but pick it up,

An unsure hand flips it around

As a finger deftly saves the page.

Slowly you start strolling through the years

Walking besides the silent shadow

From room to room, from song to song,

You see the smiles, you smell the tears,

You hear the warmth, you feel the lone.

As you wonder “Is this okay?”

You see your name written in blue

And elegant yet childish cursive

At the bottom of the next page.

You stop. The next breath comes less easy,

And the hearts seems to skip a bit,

You look again yet there it is, clear,

Passed blue letters on golden page,

What does this mean? What should you do?

The universe begins to collapse

And another is born instead

When finally you let, intrigued,

The adventure call you once more

Just as the ocean did that day,

You sail the seas of ink and paper

Carried always further by gales of thoughts,

It feels refreshing and yet familiar

But your finger eludes the clue

So, as your mind races the waves

Of memories and dear old hopes,

Your heart desperately tries to catch up

To the ship at the horizon.

Will you or will you not make it?

What the future holds is uncertain

Though your are sure, you somehow know,

The goal will be worth the journey

And the journey shall be the goal,

You turn the page and then no more –

The blank. Fear could arise, and panic too,

But a smile creeps upon your lips –

Oh you know it will be alright;

A feather falls into your palm

As you start writing one more verse,

‘Tis not the last, ’tis not the first,

‘Tis the one that means the least

To the forest of thunderclouds

And yet, perhaps, that says the most:

You are the sweet verve to my bitter symphony.


Video killed the radio star.



Every move was written by a great conductor,

I am but a puppet swaying to an old tune,

Smiling when I must smile, crying when I am told.

I dance in worn-out shoes of any and all size,

No word is truly mine – my tongue has long turned cold.

A mirror on the wall hidden in the limelight,

I have learned to reflect the glitter to your eyes,

It has made what I am since I have first performed;

Shivering in the lone, wishing I were alright –

“Nothing is created, everything is transformed”.

Watch me stumble about – a shadow at high noon;

Know, by this simple act, I am its destructor.


For a laugh.



Carrying heavy golden chains

In these pale and battle-worn hands,

You wander the desert, fleeing

Shadows of your tangled being;

One may perhaps divine your pains

– All those desperate final stands –

By giving in to your deep scars,

Yet none will ever appreciate

The truth of your want for the stars,

Will they? Too deep is the chasm –

Primordial abyss to satiate.

Oh, how somber the night must seem,

Hope but a distant phantasm,

Yet, if these words carry some weight:

Know that the moon retains its gleam

In day, in night, in storm, or death,

For all those forsaken by fate

And you deserve this ‘one more breath’.



The Bonemaker


Unvanquised, unbeaten,

He walked upon this earth

With not a single fear,

Naught could ever sweeten

Or earn the slightest worth

In his heart, there or here,

He was the Bonemaker,

He who would rock to sleep

Kingdom or empire,

The bane of his maker,

The wolf among the sheep,

The flame on the pyre;

They say riverbeds dried

And great mountains crumbled,

They say cold rain and salt

Remained of those who tried,

They say all hearts trembled

Yet his came to a halt;

A living world-breaker,

Breathing cataclysm,

To even those who bent

He was the Bonemaker,

Tears and blood were chrisom

To him and his advent,

His name was barely breathed

In the darkest of night

For fear of his shadow,

Even beyond eyes sheathed

It would instill much fright

Leaving young souls hollow,

He was the Bonemaker,

He who could tear down keep

And citadel and sire,

The ruthless life-taker

The devil from the deep;

What could he aspire?


Fear, fear, for here comes the Bonemaker.