le blanc et le rouge

improbable et surtout

chimérique intersection

du réel et de l’irréel, de l’ici et de l’ailleurs;

le relatif et l’absolu se croisent

au delà des paradoxes de la parole,

la pensée est souvent aveugle aux échanges sensibles avec le monde:

les dieux déjouent le concept de relativité,

ils nous montrent brutalement le néant,

le frémissement de l’obscurité. 

commençons le voyage, la traversée du désir et de la mort…

la mémoire du paysage est tout ce qui compte

- la naissance d’une histoire, une vraie question de l’humilité -

il te faudra ouvrir les portes de la mort pour sentir

la vie qui éclate en toi comme une explosion de lumière,

comme une pluie de ton sang: tes mains seront propres

mais froides comme la neige…

visage dans le miroir

between the quest and the star of hopes

between the mind and the dissipating reflection in the mirror

the cradle of dreams arches high, a vision of worlds yet to come -

a music in different keys, flashes of light, waves of love,

territories yet uncharted, a journey (necessary) -

yes, you must know by now there are  

no easy solutions,

no simple denouement to this story; 

choices, attitudes, a merry-go-round of

blessings and little joys spinning in the mist,

in the dark corridor between your thoughts

and le mur des lamentations.

you cannot touch them or count them;

can’t you see how pain

slices open the hours 

a row of gutted fish in a sunday market?

are you still looking for truth?

go away, leave, 

spread your wings inward and

let your clumsy flight slash your heart: 

butterfly trapped in a bottle…

spring canvas

in spring she used to write poems

about love and death - she pulled some

fresh metaphors from the black moist earth;

there was a humming in the air

and she held them in her hands,

pressed to her chest like magnolia flowers -

shape shifting metaphors may mimic spring blossoms;

it is well known that

the mind survives precisely due to its instability: 

fall, collapse, rehabilitation, healing, redemption

rotate periodically around the axis of folly;

nothing more absurd, I know,

than an ideal of order and harmony -

a ‘fabrique de jardin’ where

neither body nor soul will find shelter,

she said with a sigh, folding the clouds on her lap;

was she edgy, watchful?

was she afraid she’d be played?

oh, no! she expected nothing straight,

good or true

from the treacherous spring and

she trusted nobody with a human face.

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