Au bout des temps

Et il sera là, au bout
Des temps, qu'on
Se rencontrera pas,
Car on était la même
Substance au debut
Des étoiles mais on
Ne le savait pas.
Et on s'est rencontré
Au milieu des nos vies
Mais on n'a pas fait attention
Car on ne savait pas
Qu'on se serait pas
Rencontrés au bout
des temps.

No laughters

Paris a pris son nom parce que c'était tellement
triste sans toi, que justement ne pouvait pas rire.

Minor Ode to the Youniverse

Holy Grace! Who cares of skies
And trees, of lakes and deers,
Of myths and tales,
If you are not here.
There is more wisdom
In your navel,
Than the Buddha ever
Taught.

Fugit Tempus

If only I had no dreams
Of you, I could walk the world
With no hope. As the cold
Lights of the city walk
Over me, the dark of my
Heart grows dimmer, but
If you could only know its
Powers: it saves the light
In the depths of its bloody
Oceans, craving to release it
When the tide is high
And under the white moon
Our vessel will roll
With the songs
Of northern winds.

The land of plenty

The most painful moment

Of the day is the one

That greater joy unleasheas,

And my soul is dully unaware.

Don't blame my mourning

Spirit, it is grey and lonely.

It runs wild on the grassy

Hills of sleep, jolly and

Blushing dips in the rivers

Where memories do not haunt,

But they confort me.

Parades of ghosts that seem

Not to be, dance and smile

And bodily play. Don't blame

My mourning spirit. Yours would

Be deceived too, by the games

Of Dream, that wraps around me

As the sun rises, then

Leaves me as the sun is high

And hidden into the iron sky.

There I awake joyful

To feel the pain, to face

The rain, for dreams will

Come again and together we shall be.

Under the iron sea

Under the iron sea,

Over the gloomy sky,

Where trees are black

And leaves fall grey,

And green is grey,

There will the banshee come.

Riding a night owl she floats,

While the grey wind sadly storms,

And the heavy rain murmurs

Words of a buried pledge.

Rise apple tree, rise

And stretch your branches,

Take your golden fruits

There where no wind whips,

Take them where the Great

Architect sits watching us,

Still sorrow will I feel

But miserable no more.

Kill me, Kill me

Kill me, kill me,

Crack my bones, tear my chest,

Unfold my heart.

Still as an Atlantic storm

Will my feelings be,

Shatterproof is my love.

If I am to stay

Alive, only you I can

feed with the sweetness

Of my earthly worship.

I am to warm you

And be circumfused

By your light

Or, I would better

Not to be at all and fade

Away in fog and myst.

To die, to sleep,

No other way to stay on

This earth without you,

Beside pouring my blood

In ashaming poems to feel

Your warm hands on me once

And again, until earth

Is to shelter life within

This lonely universe.