Completing my formative years here! It’s still unbelievable when I look at the number! I pinch my self, is it true? really? I want to thank you all for providing a continuous flow of views, likes, love, support, follow, comments,… making my journey a wonderful experience. Please let me know what do you think about…
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What Survives Who says that all must vanish? Who knows, perhaps the flight of the bird you wound remains, and perhaps flowers survive caresses in us, in their ground. It isn’t the gesture that lasts, but it dresses you again in gold armor- from breast to knees- and the battle was so pure an Angel…
Read MoreDoes it exist, though, Time the destroyer? When will it scatter the tower on the resting hill? This heart, the eternal gods’ eternal enjoyer, when shall the Demiurge ravish and spill? Are we really such tremblingly breakable things as Destiny tries to pretend? Does childhood’s promise, deep, unmistakable, down in the roots, then, later, end?…
Read MoreThe Wait It is life in slow motion, It’s the heart in reverse, It’s a hope-and-a-half: too much and too little at once. It’s a train that suddenly stops with no station around, and we can hear the cricket, and, leaning out the carriage door, we vainly contemplate a wind we feel that stirs the…
Read MoreThese laborers of rain, these heavy clouds, see how evening takes them on celestial vacations; a delirium of uselessness has gripped them, and their vacationing edges dare transparencies. They nonchalantly imitate mountains and islands and propose luminous caps to the shipwrecks of sight. And later, in front of the moon, how many of…
Read MoreFrom SONNETS TO ORPHEUS Translated by J. B. Leishman Breathing, invisible poem! That great world-space, at each inhalation exchanged for this human existence. Counter-weight of my rhythmical realization. Single wavelet, whose slowly gathering sea am I; you, of all possible seas most frugal and lowly,- space laid-by. Of all these places in space, how many…
Read MoreFrom French poems : translated by A.Poulin, JR A beautiful butterfly near the earth is displaying the illuminations of its flying book to an attentive nature. Another closes on the border of the flower that we breath; this is not the time to read. And still so many others, fragile blues scattered, floating and fluttering…
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