There Is A Sun At The Gates


there is a sun at the gates

a blazing star

waiting to be let in

withering the wood, weathering it too

until the door stands no more

and the gates are open

there is a sun at the gates

raining fire over the fields

shining over the stone

melting it

into seas of grey and black

white and yellow and gold

and it shines silent, patient

eons in the making

eons before it fades

it has waited and shall wait again

and one day perhaps

when the gates open or stand no more

after being rebuilt time and time again

one day, perhaps


the sun will shine on you too

there is a sun at the gates

small yet immensely vast

bigger than anything

burning hot, coiling

a warmth against itself, within itself

and yet

it burn without burning

it hurts without hurting

and the gate knows it cannot hold it

for beyond the wood,

beyond the stone,

beyond the steel that holds it together

beyond all that

the sun

the sun waits and lies

it lies dormant and awake

it lies with night, with words

and it needs not to rise to rouse itself from its slumber

for what can ever sleep may never die

there is a sun at the gates

and as the bells toll to announce its arrival

the king knows

a sun meeting another

a star burning another star

indomitable power in front of indomitable power

in the face of the man from god

from one god to another

what holds and what doesn’t

that may very well be the question

but the gate knows

in all of the things

that may or may not

it is not destined to hold

for it is to be opened

there is a sun at the gates

and the gates are patient

yet the sun is patienter still

what lies beyond

what remains within

what exists in between

there are no edges

no frontiers

only light

and perhaps, in time,

one can learn to look at it

to watch it, to admire it,

without burning


voiced in the twilight of sleep, writen at dawn

Soleil couchant


Tu es faite de feu et de poussière d’étoile,

Tu es faite d’émeraude et d’ichor,

Le monde est ton pinceau et tu en es la toile,

Chaque minute est ta scène, chaque endroit ton décor;

Et je suis spectateur de cette symphonie

Qui joue de mon battant et de mes insomnies.

Derrière le projecteur je trace les ombres chinoises,

Saccadées, indistinctes, trépidantes et sournoises.

Par chance quelque fois, ou par jeu du destin,

J’aperçois les fils qui tirent les ficelles

De l’ode captivante que tu danses pour les cieux.

Tu es le lion et la vie est ton festin,

Mais parfois tu trébuches, tu chancelles

Sous le poids de ce cadeau des dieux,

Et dans le miroir où chacun y perd un peu de soi,

Du doigt les formes touchant,

Doucement tu souffles une vieille oraison.

Parfois, parfois, c’est toi qui m’aperçoit,

Et alors ta crinière de soleil couchant

Coule sur ma peau comme le jour sur l’horizon.


Pour insertion.

c’est comme si c’était toi


treize heures cinquante cinq

un point quatre kilo octets seconde

je le vois passer à toute berzingue

et je ne peux le rattraper, le monde;

j’ai encore oublié d’éteindre la bluetooth,

la voilà qui dévore toutes mes pensées,

quarante pourcent de batterie

et je sens jaillir cet espoir insensé:

malgré les tremblements et les secousses

peut-être les larmes seront de la partie?

voilà que je ne fais plus vraiment de sens

et que mes mots ne sont guère très jolis

mais je ne peux pas quand j’y pense

assise sur le rebord de la folie,

et dans le silence de mon royaume

encore si bruyant à mes oreilles

quoi que je dise ou je prétende

j’entends cette voix qui me demande

est-ce que chez vous ça sera pareil

dans vos tours d’argent et de chrome?

est-ce que vous sentez la force fragile

qu’il y a derrière ces mots ?

le colosse aux pieds d’argiles

qui apporte ce court et simple mémo?


je l’ai vue en me levant

au soleil pâle du matin

elle se tenait là devant

dans une robe de satin,

et puis dans un éclair de givre

qui coulait sur les pétales

j’ai presque oublié de vivre

loin de mon village natal.


j’ai l’impression de ne pas comprendre

je sais nager pourtant je coule

Slightly more, slightly less


I have something I do not have.

Maybe it was lost in the waters

The depth of which are still unknown;

I do feel something slightly more than a halve

Not that in this late fog it truly matters.

Perhaps in the forest I have grown

Deep within and inside out, around the edge

I stand, staring into the folly of the age;

Perhaps yet in the wind, scattered in many a pledge

Made to the new and the old, the easy and the sage.

Seeking for I tread this night, perhaps sleep shall whisper

Yet I search for a stronger voice,

One that comes and goes whether I care to make my choice

Or keep staring at the flame until blister.

That is not dead which can eternal lie

Yet is one alive if there is none to try?

What questions come when I be seeking for their sisters!

What grand orchestra plays as my Muses remain silent!

They listen when not speak and not speak when I listen;

To the skeptics of my follishness I ask where is the proof

That that which I am lacking

I even had before?

What would be but a spoof

Which I have been tacking

To the fro and the fore.

I do not have something I have,

Is whether it is found what matters?

Having stepped by so many a milestone

I am, on the whole, slightly more than a halve.


Halve I what I have? And have I what I halve?

The sweet scent of summer fading


Running is dying.

There is no middleground, there is no workaround,

There is only one lane circling this arena,

No greater battleground to ever run around,

No better master; oh gentle regina…

To love is to suffer.

Whether, slings and arrows, and a sea of troubles,

In the heart of the apocalypse, last man left standing,

It has no true reason yet it may never lie

Even in the beyond where everybody sleeps;

Memories are our voice.

My name is to be known from under the rubbles

Once else has closed the door and gone for the landing

Only to those ears shall descend to imply

Our smile and our tears lost in those bounds ans leaps.

The wind of change is warm.

What mystery remains to capture in thunder?

All may have been written and torn from these lone eyes

Yet, what is this ocean that within may still rise?

Maybe such in a song someone shall remember.


In all that can be said and surely in all that is, there be so little of what could.



I know I must away for the sun has long set behind the hills,

However this night is one of those that nevermind my own

Keep shining beacons and blowing wind in my sails.

I feel above it all, up high into the heavens, light on my wings

Hovering at the top of a world of new and interesting,

Wherefore am I bound to today, I cannot say without a smile

Of merry curiosity even when in my heart of hearts,

In the waves of my soul, I know I must retire and rest

This weary body of mine. I bid you farewell my friend

Of today, enemy of tomorrow, I shall see you later

And perhaps we shall converse some more of the same

When I am better and whole again? Yes, whole again.

How else do you figure that I could soar so high up?

My wings are large but feeble, barelly enough to glide,

And they encumber me when walking among my own,

Yet would I give them up to run within the wind often?

Only the new shall say, the old is too hesitant to dare

He would regret too much those furtive, passing joys

Of wonderous colour and vivid tastes. Now, now, don’t fret,

This aged one shall go to bed, my dear, I’ll see you in the morn

I can promise you that – ah… the night may be getting older

But never so as me, and the day shall be young, and too I shall be free.

Sleep tight, dream well, and above all, come again to see me.


Ashley Eriksson – Island Song (Remix)



Like a fateful cry in the unending night

Like tears upon smiling cheeks

Like hair of sand into the wind

Like the sweet smell of syrup first thing in the morning

Like loneliness in the silence of the world

Or the chatter of the heart among the tombs,


Like a strong word thrown against coarse stone

Like the running turtle and the walking hare

Like nothing ever before yet something ever since

Like a two faced mirror with no eyes

Like a bad metaphore or an ugly allegory

And the right to be the first to finish last,


Like finding something that was thought lost for so long

Like the second taste of it after the craving

Like “I mean, like like, not like like”

Like an angel wing sunk deep under the sea

Like those times one runs to them for comfort

But with the knowledge that everything ends,


Like Peace and War but teenage siblings

Like two plus two will always equal four

Like there is more to music than can be heard

Like a familiar presence in the empty spaces

Like what should be said and what shouldn’t

Yeah, like I even know what I’m talking about…


Like this or like that, but never quite like then.

An elf on the shelf is thinking to himself


One book, two books,

are standing on the shelf.

Three books, four books,

he’s thinking to himself.

Five books, six books,

all written in small text.

Seven, eight books,

what book shall he read next?

What about number nine?

What about number ten?

What beautiful story

should thou be making thine?

What about the captain

and the road to glory?

Or what about the boy

that flew down from the stars?

What of the old princess

and her lost golden toy?

Or the witch without scars

whose name you’d never guess?

So many lovely tales

to wrap around thy head,

so many small details

deserving to be said;

he knew it all so well

yet but as the sun set

he muttered to himself:

“It is not good to dwell

on what’s already set”,

and lightened the old shelf.


You’ve heard of elf on the shelf,

now prepare for twelve m in the poem.



Des monts et des vaux attendent à mes pieds

Que l’immonde de mes mots se pare ou soit purgé,

Mais que voit l’oeil qui regarde depuis le trône ?


Nulle réponse n’est vaine mais aucune ne me sied

Car alors que le monde répond à son démiurge,

Il rit et ne regarde même pas l’aumône.


Echoué sur le parvis d’une église dorée,

Profane que je suis j’observe sans faire un bruit,

Puis-je entrer ou ne dois-je appeler?

On ne saurait déranger l’entité qui y vit.


Que faire alors de ces flammes qui persistent à brûler

De leurs pâles reflets dans les bassins d’eau-de-vie ?

C’est dans cette étrange forêt dont s’efface l’orée

Que repose le scient, la tête sous le fruit.





I believe nothing is more complex than the simplicity of life:

What reason is there to our steps other than one without?

What purpose has our soul in the burning of our beings

Other than shining out a beacon to all those lost

And to refuse to be found if not to be given a name?

When the prickles of this icy wind roll through our veins

And crystalise the roaring flame of what it means to be of breath,

Has come the time to understand the source of what may be to feel

Or has it taken to the sky once more, yet to become but desire?

In a slow walk along the beach whereupon the ocean leaves for good

Only the words remain of it, ashes of a fire gone cold

Blown from the hearth of dreams into the bleak beating of the heart;

What shall remain after I sleep? And shall I step without a skip

Through the threshold of floating wood into the hall of many songs?

Once awoken there is not time and yet the stars are eternal,

Such is life before it drifts into the cold wind of morning…


If I am found then am I lost?