And what if you are never mine to hold?
Only for these weary eyes to behold.
And what if you are never mine to know?
I could never teach my love not to grow.
And what if we are not what we speak?
Hope will know what dormant scents to seek.

If there are words to be heard in this thumping
As the black turns to grey through the lighting,
If dew is drowned and white walls are tainted
As the oldest colours have all faded,
If the morning songs of the birds
Are only in our hearts to be heard,
Then teach, me morning the peace you bring!
If the beady eyed flow stream of pilgrims
If the slippers splinter and splash the water film
And brazen lights splatter the black recipient
With a hissing, oh so inconvenient,
If the keeper’s morning cigarette
And the perfume of the fresh baguette
Enlace as lovers within my nose.
If the bananas seem strangely lit,
Under the glow of white tungsten hilt
And the craving of a lazy sleep
Has laid the newspapers in such a heep.
And if radios blare the sad morning news
I do not look for the blessings of a muse,
I have found in my morning bread run.

Nous etions, en cet instant, prisonniers du bonheur.
Heritiers de cette douce mais, o combien lourde, ferveur
Brulant sous cette peau vernie de sueur, de sable et de sel,
Portes, en princes sous les ficelles des tisseuses de ciel.
Nous regardions le gris a nous ecorcher les yeux,
Aimant de la passion infidele du zenith bleu
Le vide encombrant de nos plus incroyables espoirs
Et le remou sans debut ni fin de nouvelles memoires.
Nous les connaissions, ces esprits, vagabonds des mers
Chassant, au milieu des vagues ces humeurs incidencieres,
Celles la meme qui jadis se prenommaient “reves d’enfance”
Et qui depuis de sont transformes en dependence.
Nous les connaissions, et meme si la nature de ce lien
M’est masque par un sacerdoce qui ne sera jamais mien,
Elle me dicte toujours chaque contour de leur lames grises
Qui de cet air sec et fier sont tragiquement eprises
Nous etions, en cet instant prisonniers de beaute,
Celle la meme qui voit nos poumons dechiquetes
A vouloir engouffrer ce monde entier sous nos pores
Que demain a travers ces lettres je puisse a nouveau le voir.

"Defiled humanity! In mascarades
And ****** ecstasies of joy and passion
Is thy gangrened solace anchored!
You paint beauty in nauseous tenderness
And garland her with frigid senility
No! For beauty is haunting and savage
And in my frosty grave throbs her haughty rage"

Whence cometh these mournful euphonies?
Tis' the winds; the choir of sprights in the clefts
Or tis' the earth; the plight of her laboured back?
Whence cometh this flame dancing with our souls?
Tis' flicker of the nascent wings of love
Or tis' the pyre of rage that devours?
Tis' the dream of our blood, our death, our powers!

Through darkness, laced in edges of light,
And rain, falling like angels plagued by blight,
Shattering their heavenly bones and wings,
Onto the eyeless dust of their return;
Through paths stranger to the hope of spring,
Where voices of ghosts hang with cries of “Burn!”
And moss mottled trees, like macabre jesters
Dance, limbless, leaves flailing grotesquely
To the secret japes of wind-bourn nesters;
Through corpse-ridden forests of insanity,
To where the rocks dress as the three witches
And chant midst their vainglorious riches
*“All hail, Eremita, bound to the adamah altar,
All hail, Eremita, your blood soma from the mortar,
All hail, Eremita, thou shalt be dead hereafter”...

Glorious wanderers on Death's celadon globe
Stride- in sombre ceilidh- the arsenic haar,
Mantle of Dis' harrowing of derelicts.
Feral shadows stroking the hollow strath
With crimson paces aloft Acheron's shores,
The Erinyes, in macabre cavalcades
Walk the land, bereft, forever of aubades

A romantic grace that ebb and flows
A wilting palour, or gleaming candour.
Dressed in the most splendid melancholy
Dost thou, Yesteryears, again bloom and wreathe
Piercing the fibres of succoring apathy
Unyielding, haunting asymmetry
Ghost of my Roisin Dubh vent thy effrontry

Were I a companion, in playful heart
To thy aery errands, carried there
As a dead leaf, by the spirits of the wind.
That this rocky cleft, and its blue dress of dew
May tell my senses a murmur, a tale
That faith in wonderous things may faint,
And unravel what belief dares not paint.

Pristine bristle of the jocund dreams of dawn,
Dewy eyes, desolate witness of dirge,
Boldness of the unhunted fawn of joy,
Feelings beautiful and naive, feelings denied.
Fear awakes with the spirit of the morrow
And poisons dwell in the ruins of memory
For in the winds is writ that in Chaos is Sanctity

There stood a boy with a broken crown in his hands, not knowing that from these shards would one day come the gift of imagination. Later, much later, inside of a body having outgrown the sweet smelling palm trees of his childhood, the eyes of the same boy would light up, looking up and finding, in the red and grey of the afternoon sky, the one who wore it.
The smell of the midday rain still clung to nostrils, much like its defeated foe, dust would, on a dry sunny day. I do not recall, or rather, cannot wrap my mind around the reasons which pulled me out of the shop to look at the sky at that moment, from that angle, with my eyes tearing up ever so slightly. There he was, and the grey and red of the sky were his tears and blood. He had fallen, a giant king magnificent and ridiculous at the same time, like fallen statues or noseless sphinxes, and the clouds carried his life away.Slowly, inexorably, a pilgrimage towards the east, as if returning the rays to the birthplace of the sun. They disguised themselves into grotesque shapes, imitations of clouds, in the pink velvet of exposed organs or smiling skeletons of red. The sun shone through his wounds. He looked down and knew I saw him. In this moment, in the moment our eyes crossed, I knew he saw me, I knew he recognised me, that boy with a broken crown in hand. That day I was the one bleeding, but those were only the blades of sugar canes against my skin, but today, I looked at him, expiring his last with my throat burning with a thousand questions but my lips dry as the summer dust. Who was he? What was his name? Why did he did? Was it worth it? One question my mind did not dare to ask though, was the name of his killer, for the deeper recesses of my souls knew the answer to this question and my heart engaged into that little dance which makes the ribcage suddenly feel like a cramped place.
As I walked back into the shop, a tear fled from the confines of my ducts and died on the floor, most probably trampled by couple of minutes later by an unknowing customer, not able to see me scrape off the blood from under my fingernails with the shards of a broken crown.

As the night lays awake inside of me
You murmur a love song to the sleepless.
As the cold presses on my naked skin,
You kiss my cheeks with a sweet temperance
And lead me to your glorious haven.
Under the shelter of these giant leaves,
Are our eyes but those of two sparrows,
Who watch the world from hole in the sky
Into which birds disappear at nightfall.
The pearls of rains run along the blades,
Racing each other to their beds of grass,
As naïve as in the winds of childhood love.
They wear the blue of the midnight streetlights
With the frivolous ease of princesses
Unburdened by the rule of gales
Or the heavy grey garments of daylight.
They dance and play under the watchful eye
Of the mother of all things of the night.
The moon sits alone in her splendor,
For her sky is not freckled with stars
But her earth is decorated  with tears.
She looks for no company tonight
But that of her lover children.
She smiles upon us, as she always does,
As the black of your hair enlaces
My chest and echoes my heartbeat
With the gentle thumping of the rains.

"Does she not, through the veil of slumber
Find the grace hidden in the darkest of night?
Where innocence paints glimmers, spirits and manes
Does she not, under the dewy watch of Nyx,
Clad- like thousands gone by and thousands to be-
In the black and silver of one starry night,
Find that dreams breathe still when memories but sight?"

"Chalk forest branches, Hermes of sylvan gloom,
Dark mists that flirt with the narrow streams,
Creatures that cherish the rayless nights,
Faery spirits and carnage mongers
All spread, at her feet, their obediences.
To her willow throne borne on braided flames
Lay heathen peregrines with claws and manes"

Dans les rues de Port-Louis, il fait bon dix-huit heures.
Ou chercher, dans cette ville bercée de sueur
Le fantôme de cet acharnement de vie
Qui noie les sens de lumière, de chaleur et d’envie?
Dans les aboiements rauques de ces cabots rois du soir?
Dans le son des volets qu’on baisse de façon vénielle?
Dans les pas qui s’éclaboussent sur le trottoir
Les maux de cette étrange promesse d’étincelle ?
Dans les rues de Port-Louis, il fait bon nuit d’hiver
Grise comme lasse de ces nuées de couleurs incendiaires
Elle s’éteint le temps d’allumer les étoiles,
Peintres bien plus dures que leur jumelles estivales.
L’écru de leur toile est teinte de la froideur du blanc.
Quels soupirs s’emmêlent aux clous qui habitent ses vents?
Quel chant quand la pluie crucifie ainsi nos flancs?
Est-ce celle de cette ville bohème, de beauté fille de sang?

Oh, whims of the Hyades,
Insolent, unhunted spirit,
Spoiled child of Eudora's breast!

Oh, what resplendent havoc can you wreak
Thrashing savagely against my rib cage,
Asking questions to which my brain can't speak
In any other tongue but that of rage.
Oh what poisonous covetings do you sow
That must taint the grains of affection
And plant the misery that forces me to know
That this love will be my own affliction.
Oh, what derelict promises of joy
Do you make to my frail and naive mind
For it is to you but a broken toy.
Rebellious heart why are you so hard to find?

"Incandescent ******, walking at noon
Shrouded from thy travesty of sight.
Her tender ******* preach of rage and violence
And dance, in pants, with tremours of her black hair
Her light bleeds over a savage darkness
Where the cold soil decays into rev'rence
Nostrils and eyes posed in a sleep pretense"

"Chalk forest branches, Hermes of sylvan gloom,
Dark mists that flirt with the narrow streams,
Creatures that cherish the rayless nights,
Faery spirits and carnage mongers
All spread, at her feet, their obediences.
To her willow throne borne on braided flames
Lay heathen peregrines with claws and manes"

And what of this hour, dark and beautiful
In her insistence.
She visits in the nights of sleepless lull,
Object of insolence!
She questions this very earth, ***** and dull
And devoid of sense.
Her words are as sweet as pain ever gets:
“End it all, die and cry the tears life forgets”

Winter, my last friend, thank you for this morning.
Even as your silver cloak grows frayed
With new freckles of azur accenting
The golden, our covenant you have not brayed.
This silent valediction, moonstone rayed
Belies the dying of our Sapphire,
Our council, our secret, our pyre!