Interlude

Words from another life...

In the shadows I stood in the morning, in agony at night,

From all the nightmares that sprung out of worries.

The wind that tore away the city’s garments

Was moaning in echoes, gliding across the pavement.

I was holding in my hands the completed jewellery box

Of all my sufferings, of all my lost dreams,

But always I kept slipping on a flooded ground,

And the box was breaking, one breach at a time.

The naked, blackened  trees were barring the way,

Stopping me in my tracks, I offered them the box

So they could wear its content

But they threw the box away, and the wind without fail

Was spitting in my face to make me fall again.

It was in this manner that the box was unlocked

And that I saw inside, in the midst of pieces,

Seven splinters, all fragments

From a piece of green wood

Kept alive by a mourning sky.

(1998)

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Repressing one’s passions, or setting them free,

The tormented lives the hours of the damned.

Perhaps summer is too warm, or winter far too cold,

Or is the wind more violent than an intoxicating sun?

Going against one’s desires, or allowing them slowly

To form and be born at last in the heart of one’s turmoils.

Refusing one’s fate and breaking its helm,

Perhaps then happiness sought after for so long,

But also Utopia, endless dreams whose fabric

Gets tangled and gets ripped in the grip of doubt.

Going against one’s nature, swaying from the path,

For more empty hopes, toward only more pain.

Repressing one’s own thoughts, forgetting, erasing,

This pretty golden path, straight and so well defined,

Opening up to new worlds instead that were unexpected

And live like a river's flow that can never be caught,

Drifting away without halt, toward distant shores,

Even if the boat can suddenly sink

Without being able to stop it, and give in to pain

To make one’s dreams come true, and change one’s fate.

Repressing one’s passions, or setting them free,

The tormented lives the hours of the damned.

(1999)

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It’s a long bar counter

Full of liquors and dry nuts,

Of flavours soft and bitter.

If  your lips are dry

Quench your thirst with liquor,

There exists no better

Than inside this bar.

All the people look alike,

They are drunk and their hands are shaking,

Bleary eyes and slumped shoulders,

They argue or they mock each other.

Whiskey and beer meet on the way,

The good drinkers slur their words and watch

Their neighbour sleep at the table.

The one serving chats to the old lady

Who lost her man at war

And never ceases to sigh and moan;

Suddenly an old man falls to the ground,

A man in suit holds out a hand,

Holding a glass in the other.

The door is flung open and another enters,

Some empty eyes following him

As he sits by the counter

To ask, ready to fight,

For a drink.

-----

Rebirth of the word

Give me a word,

I shall give it a colour,

I will turn ugly into a clear blue,

And beauty into a soft crimson.

Flowers will take the colour

Of the most vivid tones,

A red house, a blue sky,

A dreamy field and mauve butterflies.

The stone will transcend its coldness

Against a wall splattered in gold,

Red sun, emerald rivers,

Milky fog, and words are born

From a need to abandon

The absurdity

Of black and white words

Written with the driest ink.

So give me a word,

So I can breathe some life into

Nature, the crow

That lurks like a sentinel

Of death; I will turn it into

A flow of shadows mixed with gold

To give back the magic

To fairies, and silver to warlocks.

Give me therefore a word

So they never appear all the same,

Just give me a single word,

Sad, ugly or concrete,

I shall turn the notions,

One by one gathered back,

Into a rainbow.

-----

Love is no more.

Children cut up heart-shaped figures

From a gold-rimmed notebook.

Outside, the sky is no longer truly blue,

Perhaps it still is, but it bleeds in the morning,

And will bleed again tonight.

Love is no more.

Houses inside which shadows are moving,

People meeting at random and shouting: “I love you!”

The air is heavy like an iron lid

Weighing on the wonderful heads of readers

Who still wait for an angel with arrows

Made of silver.

Love is no more.

Landscapes the soul felt so deep

Are now wrapped in a thick coat

Of bland moods, a dead nature

That shuffles its feet like a dead man...

Love is no more!

Children cut up heart-shaped figures,

Blood trickles down the sea of delusions:

This era will bring only tears

Despite the ardent rays of sunshine

That pierce through tragedies.

Love is no more…

Days might as well stretch forever,

And regrets might as well get lost in hazy sobs

Falling on the city, one morning.