Unknown

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A name is but a name

Until it rolls on the tongue

As day and night roll in the sky;

A game is but a game

Yet still tolls the bell that wrung

What play and wright attempt to imply.

Rince my face as I float around

And the bubble of my past upon my heart.

Pop goes it, washing away the care

Flowing in weariness of travels far in time,

Too far for such small arms

To reach and grab around.

What have my dreams come to?

What am I to become?

May I still become yet?

Is the world ready to see me now

Or must I wait until sickness breathes it away?

The fabric has been worn to the bone

And so have I, I feel,

Despite the endless call of the sea

Still resonating far within.

Sometimes I can sense under my skin

The timeless threads pulling, giving,

Sails setting under a sun young still,

And other moments the flowers

Of Spring not yet withered

Beginning to falter under the summer breeze.

Must Autumn take this Fall?

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As above so below,

As within so without.

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La Rose

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Loin de son noble amant parti pour d’autres étoiles

La belle et fière rose préserve en son bocal

Un palais de lumière où filtre son parfum,

Ses beaux et fiers pétales mirent le firmament

Et proposent au vide bien belles métamorphoses.

Elle n’est pas coutumière de contempler la faim,

Pourtant là est le terme dont elle n’a plus le goût –

Il quitte la terre ferme sans le moindre dégoût

Suivant le séraphin vers ses amours premières;

Et si l’âme est avide quand l’eau va à la toile

Voilà que l’univers attend avec patience

La rose sous son verre et l’heure de son essence.

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Il paraît, dit-on, qu’il y en a neuf. Voilà la dernière.

Instant – VI

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Depuis un cadre de chêne

Où trône son portrait,

Taillé, poli, et sans écharde,

Sous une dorure de plomb,

Les couleurs l’enchaînent

Prévenant tout retrait,

Et son regard vous darde

En cet innénarable surplomb.

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Limerick

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There stands the such as which I’d like to know

Words come in myriads yet breathe no meaning

Akin to the miner that digs

With only majors for leagues

Finger clicking good at random until winter is well come

.

I relish love this art though it is not my type

For whatever is touched is lead to become gold

And were this poetry

About ever such poem

One might expect some charm and be disappointed

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The pen is mightier than the ink, for the word is but a page in the book of thoughts.

Heartbeat

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It is light and it is late

On the shores of black stone

Yet the soothing refuses me

For I am tired of the tide,

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I may sigh and I may wait

Upon the dust, upon the bone;

I am the enemy

That I must cast aside.

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Bellow the winds and the water,

Awaiting under a pale eye

Their passenger’s singing fare;

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I am the Night’s daughter

Yet how my sun is but a lie

And only this smile knows the prayer.

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When the sky is hurt, only the birds sing.

Waving through a window

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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.

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Counting one’s treasure is the true.

Lighthouse in the storm

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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.

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Love your craft and conversely.

Z

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Pour des gens nuls qui font des trucs nuls pour d’autres gens nuls. C’est nul. <3

That which is

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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.

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We are more than we are, we are one.

Un choeur en chantier

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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;

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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.

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Qui prie sous le poids d’une foi ne plie sous celui d’une autre. – Inconnu