.

You have found a notebook on the ground

A bit dusty and a bit old

Open to a page not yet complete

With doodles and scribbles of unknown sense,

You take a moment to contemplate

The strange object lying at your feet –

It is not yours; why is it there, open?

You hesitate but pick it up,

An unsure hand flips it around

As a finger deftly saves the page.

Slowly you start strolling through the years

Walking besides the silent shadow

From room to room, from song to song,

You see the smiles, you smell the tears,

You hear the warmth, you feel the lone.

As you wonder “Is this okay?”

You see your name written in blue

And elegant yet childish cursive

At the bottom of the next page.

You stop. The next breath comes less easy,

And the hearts seems to skip a bit,

You look again yet there it is, clear,

Passed blue letters on golden page,

What does this mean? What should you do?

The universe begins to collapse

And another is born instead

When finally you let, intrigued,

The adventure call you once more

Just as the ocean did that day,

You sail the seas of ink and paper

Carried always further by gales of thoughts,

It feels refreshing and yet familiar

But your finger eludes the clue

So, as your mind races the waves

Of memories and dear old hopes,

Your heart desperately tries to catch up

To the ship at the horizon.

Will you or will you not make it?

What the future holds is uncertain

Though your are sure, you somehow know,

The goal will be worth the journey

And the journey shall be the goal,

You turn the page and then no more –

The blank. Fear could arise, and panic too,

But a smile creeps upon your lips –

Oh you know it will be alright;

A feather falls into your palm

As you start writing one more verse,

‘Tis not the last, ’tis not the first,

‘Tis the one that means the least

To the forest of thunderclouds

And yet, perhaps, that says the most:

You are the sweet verve to my bitter symphony.

.

Video killed the radio star.

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Carrying heavy golden chains

In these pale and battle-worn hands,

You wander the desert, fleeing

Shadows of your tangled being;

One may perhaps divine your pains

– All those desperate final stands –

By giving in to your deep scars,

Yet none will ever appreciate

The truth of your want for the stars,

Will they? Too deep is the chasm –

Primordial abyss to satiate.

Oh, how somber the night must seem,

Hope but a distant phantasm,

Yet, if these words carry some weight:

Know that the moon retains its gleam

In day, in night, in storm, or death,

For all those forsaken by fate

And you deserve this ‘one more breath’.

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Bemused.

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Unvanquised, unbeaten,

He walked upon this earth

With not a single fear,

Naught could ever sweeten

Or earn the slightest worth

In his heart, there or here,

He was the Bonemaker,

He who would rock to sleep

Kingdom or empire,

The bane of his maker,

The wolf among the sheep,

The flame on the pyre;

They say riverbeds dried

And great mountains crumbled,

They say cold rain and salt

Remained of those who tried,

They say all hearts trembled

Yet his came to a halt;

A living world-breaker,

Breathing cataclysm,

To even those who bent

He was the Bonemaker,

Tears and blood were chrisom

To him and his advent,

His name was barely breathed

In the darkest of night

For fear of his shadow,

Even beyond eyes sheathed

It would instill much fright

Leaving young souls hollow,

He was the Bonemaker,

He who could tear down keep

And citadel and sire,

The ruthless life-taker

The devil from the deep;

What could he aspire?

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Fear, fear, for here comes the Bonemaker.

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Et dans ma tête ce n’est plus le hibou qui hulule,

Ce n’est non plus le loup qui hurle à la lune,

C’est le fou qui résonne au fond de sa cellule !

À qui l’on refuse de laisser croire à sa fortune…

Il crie, se débat, et fini par oublier la peur,

Il s’emporte et se laisse submerger par la torpeur

D’une colère d’encre au reflets de basalte

Que la froide solitude et la douleur exaltent.

Les flots d’une nuit sans astre ni satellite

Se meuvent en vivant remous et de l’écume jaïssent,

Sous les yeux du prisonnier nouvellement prosélyte,

Tous ces visages qu’il s’était prit à aimer jadis;

Chaque inspiration lui coûte la vie et chaque pas l’estompe,

Bientôt son départ, il le sait, se fera sans grand pompe.

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En tête à tête avec Dante, est-ce son fantôme qui me hante ?

.

i

In a silky wind of early summer

That blows over hills in my motherland

Come sweet, foreign scents wrapped in warm murmur,

What they speak – mystery; though some say what is planned.

ii

If one were to gaze atop from the cliffs

Down into the gorge spanning the decor,

They might view wonders akin to old glyphs

That resonate inside and shake them to the core.

iii

I still remember the quiet riverbed

By which I would lie and rest on warm eves,

The peace of the world would imbue and spread

Through my love-weary soul and, with me, all night, grieve.

iv

Imagine you could hear the beating drum

Of my sweet folly, slash, melancholy,

Imagine they spoke in a rhyming thrum

The truths of my silence, what would they say really?

.

Hear here!

.

You may be what I may know,

I may see what I may show,

I may well dream what you are

And may never be on par,

But may I hope for what I hope

I shall do so on this rope,

Little by little climb a slope

No matter how obvious the trope,

You may see what I may show,

I may be what I may know,

And this dream may remain far

But what is life without scar?

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Time shall tell if I am mad,

In the mean time: let’s just add.

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Count the numerous paths I have never taken;

They reflect in the glass of a tainted window

Or is it in my eyes that I see them broken?

Let me lie in the shade of the old tree’s meadow

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As notes die in the air, I feel the aftertaste

Of sugar in the lime, light on my tongue, heavy;

The song must now conclude, the script shall go to waste

As each potential reel fakes another prelude.

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I have seen the future and yet live in the past,

Silence melts the dischord symphony in no blast,

The voice finally breaks, in time even ink fades…

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The screen goes back to black, the race comes to a close,

The moment is over: anew the river flows,

And I feel the prickle of a myriad sharp blades.

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The name of this poem came to me as it was almost upon completion – wherefrom, I know not.