It’s like a tree in the wind


I’m losing all my leaves

They’re falling each their own

One at a time, all together

I’m losing all my leaves

Like a tree in the wind

Like a branch in the rain

As autumn falls on me

I’m losing all my leaves

And my roots have grown deep

So deep I cannot see

Where they are leading me

I’m losing all my leaves

To the wind and the rain

To the scrolling of time

To the scratching of this itch

I’m losing all my leaves

And the birds are still singing

And the world is still turning

Under a sky of blues

I’m losing all my leaves

In the bloom of flowers

In this last dance of bees

By the small pond of old

Where I used to fish with them

I’m losing all my leaves

Floating away in the night

I’m losing all my leaves

Try as hard as I might

My fingers are stiff

As my skin after bark

I’m losing all my leaves

And no spring awaits me

Around the bend of the river

Let them carry away

I’m losing all my leaves

I’m losing all my leaves

I’m losing all my leaves

As I once thought they would stay


A father is a father as a father may be.

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.

Dos au miroir


Dos au miroir, je ne vois mon visage.

Que sais-je de ses formes

De ses recoins, ses replis,

A présent que les années

Ont lissé mon portrait ?

Face au mirage, vois-je que ne veut croire ?

Il est temps que je dorme

Car avec soin le temps délie

Et ce qu’il avait condamné

Se dessine trait par trait.

Est-ce à mes yeux destiné ce reflet?

Ou est-ce destinée reflet de mes aïeux?

Ne sachant quel chemin

Emprunter pour survivre

Le gardien se défile,

Il remet à demain,

Se résignant à suivre

L’avenir qui s’effile

Par l’interstice étroit d’une haute tour d’argent

Qui ci se fait l’agent du vieil oeil maladroit.


De cette âme un peu perdue

Le miroir se fait la plaie

Que le long temps a mordu

Car y lisse le reflet.

Instant – IV


Dans une pièce vide

Sans fenêtre ni cloison

Depuis longtemps réside

Le prisonnier de foison,

Si ce n’est dans l’espace

C’est tout au moins du temps

Que son coeur se déplace

A mesure qu’il attend.


First draft


The proverbial chisel awaits for the hammer

To fall and to give shape to a body of mind,

None ever has before seen anything of kind

Yet the heart hesitates letting the hand stammer.

A moment not as such comes but once per eon

Awaiting to be grasped, for ever too soon gone,

By the sun, by the clouds, by the rain or by dark,

Through silence, through great bangs, through Man and its kind hell.

So when the creaking raft lowers anchor to dwell

Believe not dry feet words, trust yourself and embark

For if this journey costs it is yet worth it all;

Hesitance may ponder over the need to stall

But the hand may not stop just as the heart must beat,

So shall the eye still see despite all Life’s blankets

Reminding who forgets of work still to complete;

The mind is a glutton and the soul its banquet.


Perfection à dessein, à action, à moyen.



Du sang et des larmes

Coule un temps orageux;

Des sans et des armes,

Coût du pain et des jeux.


Il a l’air d’être dans l’air du temps

Pour l’hère qui ère et qui attend

De RER en heureuses aires, d’être content;

Héros de colère et de contraires instants.


Si monseigneur lapin se retrouve prit en chasse

C’est parce qu’il refuse l’honneur de la Cour

A ceux qui jouent piano et ceux qui jouent la basse

Et – soi-disant – restent à mi-parcours.


Pansez bien vos mots à défaut de les penser

Car à force de bals, de pas à posséder,

Ne soyez étonnés si tous viennent y danser

Forçant loups et chasseurs à se de peau céder.


De la politique et de tous ses filets,

Le plus sournois et le plus saisissant

Est encore celui dont le gilet

Tente de se départir en réfléchissant.



The experiment


In a drop of water: the world. In a grain of sand, cosmos.

Sitting on the table is the penultimate patient,

The mind has been gently blown to pieces of sentient

And the body grounded into a ficticious pulp

From lack of atmosphere by a mishapened gulp

All to unexist in creation of enthropic osmose.


Proposition: let it be sewn back and together by silver threads.

Once shape has been restored to this primordial clay

Thunder shall begin the first scene of the first act of this new play;

Puppets once actors could be moved back in place,

Could be pushed back in time through clever-patterned lace,

Mayhap even luck might turn back busts and turn back heads.


Observations enlighten but scatter – automation is of the latter.

What wood cannot bend and steel cannot perceive,

Flesh may replace as living avatar of what means to deceive;

Inconclusive results permit no absolute truth to be breached

Yet hope remains, lighting the way towards new heights to be reached.

Time is running out, night is waltzing in, shall this even matter?


To the idealist who has none, and to the realist who is done, look at the pessimist: he is gone.



Bruises that flesh has torn apart

Appear as the day’s colours

A vital flaw in the rempart

That Time credits with due valours

All white the knight and the lady

See rooked the tower of babble

Talking away night malady

On this bored of dust and rubble;

Smart believes the jester thinks

Before the power of a pawn

When any and all can be kinks

Although few do see a next dawn

Without a blade through their shoulder,

Many revere the common shop

A Tentalus with a boulder

Moving no church but a bishop

For what belief is but they lack

From the great ship, upon their deck,

Both sea and night are robbed in black

Power not to be kept in check –

And while others content in par

Simply replace the missing stone

Some twilight battle deepened scar

Must etch itself into the bone.


What is felt can be no words.



Un, deux, trois, quatre,

Dansent les petites flammes dans l’âtre,

Quatre, trois, deux, un,

Le feu et ses douces braises se sont éteints.

Un, deux – trois, quatre,

Sens-tu ce vieux cœur encore battre ?

Cinq, six – sept, huit,

Et vois-tu le temps qui prends la fuite ?

Neuf, dix, dix, neuf,

Bien trop de fils et de sang neuf

Huit, sept, cinq, six,

En grand désordre et artifice

Quatre, trois, deux, un,

Entretenons le brasero

Et pour tout unir, le zéro,

Que l’on garde pour la faim.


Le conte est bon.



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,


I may sigh and I may wait

Upon the dust, upon the bone;

I am the enemy

That I must cast aside.


Bellow the winds and the water,

Awaiting under a pale eye

Their passenger’s singing fare;


I am the Night’s daughter

Yet how my sun is but a lie

And only this smile knows the prayer.


When the sky is hurt, only the birds sing.