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12 décembre 2007 3 12 /12 /décembre /2007 15:46

Humer l’air du temps
l’air de rien
rien à faire
faire avec



Et tant pis
si le temps
est parti
en fumée


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N.L. 12/12/2007 21:26

The Siren (a poem)

I heard a certain siren who called me from afar.
Her song reached out and cast her spell on the wayward traveler.
Irresistible. I was pulled, pulled for oh those many years,
Into that island near her seaside home, and there I circled.
Peace of course, with a siren, is not to be, but unthinking,
I roundabout ringed the island. I ringed and ringed...

Until one day I followed Odysseus in his tact,
And found the wax to block my ears,
So that a muted calm would cover my soul.
And on that day I escaped that island, and returned
To my native land, where there were no circles and I grew,
Free from the servitude of an unfulfilled destiny.

I grew but did not forget that siren who called me from afar.
I built my life and tasted the joys that the earth offered me.

Then one day, with my ears still tightly shut,
I heard her voice again. Faint, but there! Piercing the waxy layer.
Sadly now, she sang, but in her sadness, her voice was stronger.
She called me and all the wayward souls to her, and now I knew:

Still I circle her lonely island; never can I escape that call,
Doomed and blessed I am to hear this sweet bitter song,
For all the time that remains, languishing, relishing,
The bits of purple pleasure and accepting the pain.
For I have no choice. There is no waxy sentry that can save me.
And I love that call, even as it cuts me, and the siren knows not that I exist.

Sirène 12/12/2007 22:45

What a lovely poem,What a lovely thought !What a faithful feeling,What a sorrow behind.I fear I was only a Penelope ...But I realize nowIt's not so easy to be also a Siren.To suffer or make someone else sufferDo we always have to take that risk ?