.
Whether you try,
Whether you cry,
Whether you’re shy,
Whether you lie,
You.
You should be confident.
There is no boundary
That you can never cross.
And always those frontiers
Can at one point be bent.
The world’s not binary,
Know you are your own boss,
The path will become clear.
You.
Do not stand by,
Don’t just comply,
Get up, retry,
Fly to the sky!
.
.
Are you whom I am looking for? The one ?
Oh tell me, however can I be sure?
I cannot wait until this love is gone
To finally find out if it is pure…
In the end, is that what I truly sought?
Whatever I did, whatever I thought,
Could it, no matter what, ever be fought ?
Because, my dear, you don’t taste like you should,
‘Cause you don’t fit in my arms like she would,
I love you –swear I do!– but are you good?
I cannot wait until this love is dawned
To finally find us this needed cure.
Am I the one with whom you want to bond?
Do tell me, however can you be sure?
.
.
Who, for a moment, sat and thought to be poet?
Who really looked at that which they truly covet?
Who voiced, just once, out loud: ‘I want to tell stories
So beautifully made they brush away worries
Of readers crestfallen and reignite their flame’?
Who actually said it and acted on their claim?
.
.
To the crazy ones
This is an homage,
For all great findings
They have granted us.
Bygones be bygones,
Let’s enter this age
For there is nothing
That can stop progress.
To those geniuses
Those who were outcast,
Who fought the uses
And stood atop the mast.
To the crazy ones,
Those we can’t forget,
Those who change the world,
Here’s to all of you.
.
Huh. A poem without rhymes, imagine that…
Can you guess what has inspired meto write this? #LittleRiddle
.
Depuis que je suis né du ventre de ma mère,
Jamais je n’ai pu faire ou vouloir autrement
Que de suivre les pas de mon illustre frère,
Sans même protester, toujours docilement.
Pourtant je ne rêve que d’avoir une marge,
D’avoir à ce crayon l’équivalente gomme,
De ne pas devenir de l’arbre simple pomme,
De ne plus être enfant prisonnier de ses langes.
.
*
‘Si vis pacem para bellum’
Says the sage man in his wisdom,
For it is useless decorum
To try keep apeace each kingdom.
*
.
It’s not your dress, though it suits you like a princess,
It’s not your shoes, though they do embellish your dress,
Not your necklace, which sparkles as bright as your eyes
Nor your makeup, your scarlet lips and your fair skin,
.
It’s not your hair, warm chestnut cascading in waves,
It’s not your nose, though that of an Egyptian queen,
It’s not your legs, graceful and soft and athletic,
Not your hands, soft and delicate, nimble and quick,
.
It’s not your mind, of thoughts beautiful treasure trove,
Not your accent, rolling sexily on your tongue,
Nor your kindness, treating right those you live among,
.
It’s not the way you fancy looking at me my dear,
That is not the purpose of what I’m saying here,
Neither ’tis your smile, nor your undying love.
.
.
There is a dancer, high up in the stars
Coming and going, floating like the wind,
He turns and whirls to forget his scars,
None know exactly what he is trying to find.
.
.
She looks at me, I too look at her,
Her lips sensuous red, so are her eyes,
Oh things will never be as they were,
My heart broken from her muffled cries.
On her gentle face rolls a lone tear,
I’m trying but -useless- she won’t hear,
I feel helpless, simple bystander,
As if, of my very own body
I was but a helpless passenger;
All my words feel so very shoddy.
I can’t help but see her raw beauty
Or how strong she is in her weakness,
For in the midst of all this bleakness
She stands proud, fulfilling her duty.
She looks at me, I too look at her,
Her lips shake, I hear her voice waver,
Still she goes on, doesn’t hesitate
Despite the whole wide world she could hate.
As her head is filled with memories
Of joys, sadness and sometimes worries,
Still she goes on, no hesitation,
Dancing in the fires of passion.
She sings about happiness, past times,
Floating in these melancholy chimes.
.
.
In the pond the water flows,
Streaming gently as it goes.
In the leaves a slight wind blows,
Spreading out a scent of rose.
.
Tales of Ore 