you climb a tree, right to the top
the tree took years to reach those nauseating heights
energy, commitment, obstinateness to make it
and you, the one with the selfish gene, climb up it
cutting out all the hard work
and I can't blame you, for I have done it too

tu montes à un arbre, jusqu'à la cime
l'arbre a passé des années à arriver à cette hauteur écoeurante
l'énergie, l'engagement, l'obstination pour réussir
et toi, celui avec le gène égoïste, tu montes
en passant tout le travail dur
et je ne te reproche pas de le faire, car je l'ai fait aussi

the other day, I borrowed the face of a happy man,
it helped me get through the day, for that there's no doubt.
when outside, it didn't wash off, not even with rain
yet when I got home, it came off quickly, but not without pain.

I feel empty without it, a husk of a being,
and it gets harder to put on with each coming day.
it begins to feel stolen, no longer borrowed, it must be said,
I put on a brave face, whilst on the inside, I am dead.

I sometimes wish people would only know my true face,
I wonder if they would still like me, or think me a disgrace.
I wish I didn't have to borrow the face, to keep on going,
but I won't stop wearing it, to keep them from knowing.

I let the soft summer breeze
caress me, but it can't
take me where I want to be

The leaden winter:
overbearing, ominous.
foretells lethargy

a gust from above,
searching for a soulless place
beats against my back

the clouds separate,
warm sunlight bathes my body,
things are looking up.

I sit quietly
picturing your almond eyes,
and I am content.

Night is upon us,
Let's run away together!
Haste is a virtue.

Saturnine glances,
around the dusky basement.
I swallow my pride.

badious clouds caress
the aurulent sky above:
I sit quietly

mes larmes piquent mes lèvres,
la douleur m'accable, tout
d'un coup, je suis mort.

As still as water,
Yet not even half as calming.
Foretells the darkness.

warm and velvety,
they touch me as we mirror.
Delicate embrace.

tin can man, lend me a hand
if you weren't just a porter, you wouldn't be so bland.
run through the barley, hands to the sky
pin it to the sailor but don't tell me why.

the butcher of Ealing looks on you in dismay
but what do you care? he's just a protoplasmic eel.
spineless of spirit, haughty by hope, not a real man
and not fit for Pope.

see how they laugh at the man in the cloud
in his ivory tower, he sits tall and proud.
he gives you not choice, but a strict code of conduct
but please don't adhere to his naive social construct.

in the end, it's not decisions that make us
but the way we stay warm.
nevermind, it wasn't meant to be old barber
keep the coat and the old Greek tale.

la dame nature n'hésite pas
la dame nature ne prend pas de décisions
la dame nature n'a pas de maître
la dame nature n'a pas besoin d'émotions
la dame nature ne suit pas les règles
mais la dame nature est délicate et amiable
et je suis la dame nature
pour qu'elle devienne quelque chose d'autre

missed opportunities for a burned out soul
potential thrown away lackadaisically in the fleeting moment
a school-of-thought to ruin a lifetime of work
leaving you in the cold, wet dirt

you know it's bad when crying is enjoyable
an actual show of emotion comes as bleak relief from the never-ending steppe of non-existence
an true yet brief feeling; enough to rekindle the dampened spirit
but crushed without a thought by the elapse of tissues
the ducts are dry, nothing left but shudders

back to normality and banality
same old, same old, so they say
more powerful than words and transient passion
and i greet and embrace it like a returning master
clinging to it despite my unchained body
"hello master, nice to see you again"

its monotonous cycle a principle of existence
unaware, unforgiving and savage by nature
it does not care for the desires of mankind
its presence applauded, its absence a silent killer
antithetical yet necessary

objective in the broadest sense, it knows no judgement
mother of mother nature yet harbinger of finality
its nonchalant attitude incites disdain
and its aggressive demeanour only knows pain

forever practical, never an outsider