Oh say to me, what are
Those things you grave
In this flaming world.
Is it love you still maintain
Amidst your broken heart
Or is it caring
Compassion for those
Poor creatures who have
Nothing but day and night
To linger through their life.
As you are always
Kind and mighty in deeds
To use your power to make
Good out of the ill.
Tell me what is it and I will
Grant you every fortune
I gather and all the love
I find in the hidden beauty
Of the woeful world
To make better of thyself and me
And give the rest to those in need.

Writing a poem
under the moon
Contemplating
on a wooden chair
The silky curtains
spread their wings.

I hear a voice
your call at night
echoing on walls
I leave the ink
and run down
over the meadows
over the fields
and the moon
lightens my path.

The woods is dark
but does not halt
my rush toward you
I run for a while
I run for years.

In your room
is a coffin inside
on top of it are flowers
a bouquet of liliac lilies
I don't hear your voice
anymore. It is dark.
I sit by there for years.

It took centuries
to reach you
and seconds
to love you.
The moon on the hill
is standing still.

Confide in someone,
pour your heart
has so much power
as you are given
the honor to hold
somebody's soul
in your arms.

Les maladies du beau coeur
qui viennent sans nul de peur
qui étonnent et brouillent l'âme
mais toujours avec la charme.

L'idealist bizzare qui vit en vous
Qui rit et qui pleut, elle vient d'où?
Le mond n'est pa aussi beau qu'elle rêve
Mais la songe et si belle, elle s'releve.

La sympathie naturelle
La compassion éternelle
Entre les deux mondes
Qui suivre l'âme au fond.

La songe tient toujours belle
Malgré toutes la surréelle.

Those sublime flakes of snow
Flying down in a chaotic row
Tabbing  against the tender skin
Who, in the doleful end will win?
Sublime and sweet, the memory
Throbbing in grief too severely
I do feel the snowflakes of ache
Landing on the heart of rage
Not even trying to melt anymore
It's all too cold and bitterly sore.