A cluster of clothes clamped to my skin
Shreds of country flags floating in the wind
Harrowed by the heavy hollow heresy
Of humanity, scattered bribes of poesy.

But when you speak, my secluded soul
Sees the watercolor rainbow formed by four nations
Euskal Herria, France, Spain and America
You hold in your accents my tenderest childhood.

And when poets ink their nationalities
Through the diaphanous paper, light
With the burdening joy of their fatalities
I follow the trail of their voyage burning bright

Where you barred it all on the page
Shadows of lashes on your literary back
Raw and pure, rare and *****
The essences of you, self-permeating.

Aurora, your rose-kissed fingers
Skimmed your book, the imprint lingers
Surrounded by your poignant power
My quill joins your flow, serene seer.

Inspired by Aurora Vélez García
Lyon, July 5, 2018
Appoline Romanens

I tiptoe on definitions,
trusting that
eloquence and versed language
might be enough.

Underneath the sky, love is a language.

No one is fluent,
but words become my way.

It takes time,
and I might stumble.
But love,
listen.

Between lines, I am true.

I am full of intricate detail
that makes no sense
unless you
listen.

-E.K.

In the world to describe how much I love you.

ti amo

te amo
o
Anh yêu em
I love you

איך האב דיר ליב
o
я тебе люблю

There aren't enough languages either.

If God were to say, "Dear, would be my pleasure
to grant your heart's desire within reason"

I wouldn't hesitate, I wouldn't give a second thought to my decision

And I would hope God wouldn't think I was asking too much or being selfish, when I ask for this unique gift

A gift of speech, of words, of understanding of all languages, a gift coveted by interpreters, scribes and poets alike

In my imagination there is no better gift, than a gift of understanding of all languages, every spoken tongue

O' to have a special gift, an exceptional ability to communicate verbally  with any individual alive, and animals, too

Would I find this overwhelming, or would this just be way too cool?

Everyone dreams in a language
receives the same message
and interprets it differently.

Poetry's
one of those messages
dreamt of in languages
and
seen in wild images.

Mirage's mirror me in
this dream
a sweet symphony
and it all comes back to me
but somehow
differently.

When you love someone for long enough,
You begin speaking their language.
You find yourself saying the same things,
Even stumbling over the same words;
I used to think it was silly the way she'd
Say "Spiracha" instead of "Sriracha,"
But love has a way of changing
The way you think,
Translating your old ways of
Thinking into something new.  
Intercultural.  Bilingual.

My previous sentence
Rubbed every trace
Of the next one I was going to create.

Once what I loved
Comes now suppressing me

My feet are stuck
In a slimy mud of languages
I push my hands
Splash, splash it goes:
All the dirt is now over my shirt

I take off my shirt
And imagine basking in glory
But nakedness is for artists
And I am without words