I grow cold . . . I grow cold . . .
The drips shall drop from my nostrils uncontrolled.
Shall I put a sweater on?  Should I risk a cardigan?
I shall dress myself in white, emulate a ptarmigan.
I have heard pelagic puffins on the shore.

I do not think that they were warning me.

Denial rose
unbidden to my tongue
but
I could not disclose
the words that lay
unuttered
in my heart

To shake forbidden fruit
from off the sacred tree,
to quell the hungry yearnings
of the phantom bough
and hide the mystic longings
of the barren heart.
These are the secret wishes
that are keeping us apart.

Forgive me
the rage of youth,
the senseless
towering frenzy
of childish
interception.
the malignity
of immaturity
Now that I am
old enough.
Old enough to be dying
with dignity.

Il n’y a pas un croix qui surmonte mon église
ni une etoile à six branches.

On n’y trouve pas un croissant
ni un ******* non plus.

Cette église n’existe que dans mon imagination
mais elle est plus puissante que la pierre.

Do not plant a rose bush
in the shadow of an oak
and expect to see a beauteous flower.

Instead exult in the beauty
that is the mighty tree.