Instant – V

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Il touche mais ne goûte à la terre

Sous bien des siècles noyé,

Le marbre froid qui l’enserre

Est depuis toujours son foyer;

Lui, si loin de sa terre natale,

Arbhorre à jamais ce sourire

Car si blessure n’est pas fatale

Jamais ne se verra guérir.

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First draft

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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.

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Perfection à dessein, à action, à moyen.

Quintessence

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Du sang et des larmes

Coule un temps orageux;

Des sans et des armes,

Coût du pain et des jeux.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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HMTD?

The experiment

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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.

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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.

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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?

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

Sundawn

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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.

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What is felt can be no words.

Padede

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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.

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Le conte est bon.

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.

Molten

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Molten glass becomes a heart

If breathed into carefully,

Hope wakes it up with a start

For the whole world to discover;

Molten heart becomes aglass

Waiting to be filled with folly,

What should think then the young lass

Of the promised grand lover?

Every beat into pieces

Lay shattered on the ground,

Neither shall know what peace is

Until they recognize the sound

Of what has yet to be broken –

Within the vale truth lies spoken.

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They shall bite or be bitten, they shall smite or be smitten, they shall write or be written.

Un jeu simple


Une nouvelle de ma propre création – à l’origine par écrit et en anglais – ici contée par moi-même.

C’est un test pour moi, une sorte de première sur une voie – celle du conte à l’oral – qui me passionne et que j’aimerais beaucoup explorer à l’avenir.

Vos avis, quels qu’ils soient, seront très appréciés, alors n’hésitez pas à commenter !

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Adapté de A Simple Game.