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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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Tag Archives: écriture
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
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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.
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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,
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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
Improve
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A deep grave in the fingers,
As the cold sets in
I wish only but to sleep…
*
Tombe la vie de mes doigts,
Et le froid s’immisce
Je ne souhaite que sommeil…
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Ahem.
Hemlock
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Hemlock in a bind, torn about the wrists,
Trapped in a gilded safe shackled to ropes of stone,
A black horse of turns and twists enthralls the frightened waif
Attempting to atone for her struggles and strife.
Tis freedom chased from life,
There are those of one mind whose faithless soul has gone,
What visage do they adorn? A silent lake of water still
Brings a strange glow to the mire,
The great hunt shall again go on far into the lights of morn;
To those whom chase beyond free will
Hope shall never be but fire.
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Guarded is the lone heart against freedom tossed
However at what cost ?
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Ghost riders in the sky follow the red sun.
Tales of Ore 