"fanfares" poems
she pours me a glass of wine
and with overgentle hand caresses my cheek
tells me a tale from her long ago
in a strange voice like smoke
tells me me of a love that chimed like the bells of spring
rang straight and true
like carefully crafted glass slippers on the night dancer
like all the comfortable things that she keeps
in the closet of her heart
pulling out the decorations in dusty celebration
of the summer night years past
with the photographs sad with their smiles
that true love of her girlhood
standing in the dusk holding his hand
and the kiss like a king and his blushing princess bride
she was so nervous she left her shoes on the lake shore
and when he was gone to the distant winter gate
she lingered by the icicle window tracing with
a finger hearts with his name
she laughs with a ghost of a tear
over how silly she had been
her first kiss hadn't been with such fanfares
and flowing silken robes
but with some handsome lad
who is now lost to the vastness of years
but she still has the picture of her in that dress
standing on the lake shore with shoes in hand
while the carnival spun in the background like a drunken man
whos song has given way to his lament
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Heartstone is a reflection in music on a ‘lost’ poem. The poem described in its two short verses a summer’s day, a landscape, a fossil found and placed in the palm of a child’s hand. The poem inspired a seven-movement work for wind, brass and percussion with solo piano. Here is its poetic programme note.
Chert
The piano draws an arc of rhythm
rising then falling.
Above
two choirs of wind and brass
exclaim, fanfare, mark out
shorter, determined
gestures of sound.
The procession, almost a march,
becomes a dance.
Alone
Two choirs of wind and brass
become four couples
whose music weaves
from complexity a simplicity:
Chromatic to Pentatonic
twelve becoming five.
Prase
Four stopped horns,
five extended tonalities.
Together they wander
a maze of Pentatonic paths;
alone, and in pairs, as a quartet
they discover within
a measured harmonic rhythm.
Tension: resolution
. . . and surrounding
their every move
the piano
insists an obligato,
a continuum of phrases,
absorbing into itself
the warp and weft of horn tone.
Sard
Oscillating
in perpetual motion
the full ensemble
occupies a frame
of time and space.
Flutes, reeds,
double-reeds
brass, piano,
percussion
mirror-fold on mirror-fold
layer upon layer
overlapping.
Yarns of threaded sound.
Tuff
Without a break
the mirrored oscillations
patter pentatonics
on tuned percussion
of marimba and vibraphone
whilst
a batterie of drums
lays down
shards of beaten rhythm
against this onward
folding of tonality change.
In the background
a choir of winds
flutes and single reeds
waymark this recursive journey
gathering together
cadential moments and the
necessary pause for breath.
Marl
Relentlessly, the motion is sustained,
piano-driven,
a syncopated continuo,
rhythm-sectioned
amidst layers of percussion.
Adding edge,
a choir of brass and double reeds
amplify the piano’s jagged rhythms
providing impetus for
phrases to become longer and longer,
ratching up the tension,
ever-denying closure
until the batterie
delivers
a conclusive flourish.
Paramoudra
Pulse-figures of winds.
Motific cells of brass.
Both
negotiate a stream of
fractal-shaped tonality
expanding: contracting.
A blossom of fanfares
folding into
pulsating layers
of tuned percussion,
flutes and reeds.
A dance-like episode
absorbs a chorale.
Four horns in close harmony
against the continuing dance.
A duet of differences
flows into a cascade of chords
in closed and open forms.
The piano supports
brass-flourishing figures
before a final stillness.
Heartstone
In gentle reflection
the solitary piano –
a figure in a landscape
of collapsed harmonic forms -
presents in slow procession
the essence of previous music.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
Such a sad sad tale of woe,
the story of the wood nymph Echo.
Cast aside with never a care,
her sobs reverberate through the air.
Warning the forest of her sorrow,
no fanfares did she need to borrow,
far and farther her tears did go,
fading and fading, just like Echo.
© Pagan Paul 25/07/16
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
The brass peal of encouragement fanfares me to action
And bids me to play myself the highest note as can reach
Balanced on the edge of a scale, my treble-hearted quaver
To hold my tone in purest form until, beyond my fine appeal
I may breathe again
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
There was a little boy
once, crouched nervous
on the stairs, in the house with no heating,
his heart black and bare.
It’s the end of eternity;
He’s lost his daddy.
On the battlefields, bleak
with fanfares, furious
flag-wielding in shrieks of despair
and soldiers shedding
their selves,
their blood
for what? -
for War.
Oblivious, with Reality
relayed through a television prism,
the tragedies managed
the carnage rewritten.
And she too is shivering. Her mother
holding her, holding her,
telling her
she loves her
with the radio background
spouting
everything’s fine
but her daddy’s gone:
Blasted
by a mine.
Far away in time
in landscapes
unearthly, where gravity,
where sense, where shadows are defied;
there, only at night
in the stillness, the soft music,
the echoes of children’s cries
make a contrapuntal chorus
amidst the blunt gunshots,
the loss of good lives.
The memory,
the victory,
the double-edged knife.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
Fanfares at the funfair for the children we took there and candy floss crème for the time in-between the dodgems and ducks.
Steinbeck played halfback on the quarterdeck of a cruiser,
not an enviable position, but they enhanced his pay and with two rations of *** every day he didn't really care.
Time jumps about when you're about to get down to the real business of living
I'm about to do that but I can't find the time.
Wild in our childhood we are savaged by our adulthood
what chance to have peace?
there is none.
It's a fashion to be
or it could be it was
I get lost in minutiae
and tend to shy away,
but only
because the side track is
my best side and my best side
is the side track
I'm on.
and anyone can learn how to drive.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
(Scribblenaughts and swoon theories) (c)
The stars part
The comets hail our victory over the death of love
Galaxies cartwheel
The fanfares of supernovas herald our impending union
Finally after tracing each trail of ether humming your frequency,
Looking under and over every last hope
Twisting into one dimension after the next
To feel this indefinable moment of chasing so close now,
Through everlasting travels to find eacother over uncountable millenia,
Infinite universes with nothing but a burning desire to find you
Tracing the whispers left as webs crossing the universe
Drawing the constellations marking our tribulations,
And declarations of love with glittered lines
As signs to bring you closer,
As answers to your own markings
To show you where I've been,
Where i'm going,
Like notes in the sand.
Only the lines got crossed and the countless glyphs so many
In desperation became scribblenaughts
And my desperate hope to find you an endless exercise in swoon theories;
All leading to this one true moment when I hold you in my gaze
Will you remember me for what the whole universe is now
Ablaze?
I'm here,
I'm on your frequency,
In your atmosphere
Love,
Please say you remember me?
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
La première est toute d'argent
Et son nom tremblant c'est Pâline
Sa lame un ciel d'hiver neigeant
Son destin sanglant gibeline
Vulcain mourut en la forgeant
La seconde nommée Noubosse
Est un bel arc-en-ciel joyeux
Les dieux s'en servent à leurs noces
Elle a tué trente Bé-Rieux
Et fut douée par Carabosse
La troisième bleu féminin
N'en est pas moins un chibriape
Appelé Lul de Faltenin
Et que porte sur une nappe
L'Hermès Ernest devenu nain
La quatrième Malourène
Est un fleuve vert et doré
C'est le soir quand les riveraines
Y baignent leurs corps adorés
Et des chants de rameurs s'y traînent
La cinquième Sainte-Fabeau
C'est la plus belle des quenouilles
C'est un cyprès sur un tombeau
Où les quatre vents s'agenouillent
Et chaque nuit c'est un flambeau
La sixième métal de gloire
C'est l'ami aux si douces mains
Dont chaque matin nous sépare
Adieu voilà votre chemin
Les coqs s'épuisaient en fanfares
Et la septième s'exténue
Une femme une rose morte
Merci que le dernier venu
Sur mon amour ferme la porte
Je ne vous ai jamais connue.
823
Time drips slowly down kitchen cabinets
Like cello music, sweet and dark,
Spilling over the edges of fingerboards and eyelashes,
Arpeggios of stillness cascading through the
Silence that is really music reigning the gaps between each whisper of breath and tick of the clock and soft drumming of raindrops on the street, an ensemble of intimacy.
I love it here.
I love the way it's vulnerable and honest inside your walls of false, forte confidence;
There are no cliché expressions of love at first sight, just the words of your heart,
Like notes played on an old piano, each separate and round and the tiniest bit halting but beautiful nonetheless.
They are rough truths, a little out of tune and not in quite the right key,
But they are the truth,
And that strikes more chords in my heart than a perfect rendition of well-rehearsed Beethoven harmonies
Fitting too perfectly to my rhythms.
And the cadence of your laugher flutters in my rib cage like
Triple-tongued fanfares,
The brush of your fingertips on mine
Sending vibratos of warmth through my soul,
Yours eyes, honey brown, speaking as powerfully as a Stradivarius
Without even the smallest pianissimo whisper of voice,
My synapses firing in double-time, heart thumping adagio, allegro, presto,
Neither of us conducting, just riding out the jazz and operas and fiddles and symphonies of our love
I wish for books of blank pages to keep composing the
New melody of our lips, dancing along crescendos of
Instinct and softly thrilling secrets
On the gentle sonata of a rainy day in June.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
she gives nothing to the night
just waits quiet for its passing
here by the light of her candle
she waits as nights heavy feet slowly tread their intended path
as its myriad of small creatures
with their fanfares of babylon thunder and roll
their thousands voices wailing bitter and ceaseless
their thousands sharp claws rending the dreams from the dreamers
here in the prayers of her soulful reflections
she hears nights dark hand tapping at her door
hoping in vain to unleash her upon the free winds
hoping to strip away her adornments like a tissue of lies
so that she would stand as innocence in moonlight
with her perfections and beauties to be loved by the sea
until she was empty
here in the cradle of her hour
she awaits the fairer face of dawn
whom with lighted step and naught but the
chimes of birdsong shall usher away the
last of nights rabble sweeping them gently aside
with dawns ever sweet natures
to find and comfort all thouse
waiting for the redemptions that the light of day
sheds upon all thouse who fear they have been slandered by nights hand
she timidly opens her haven
as dawn moves past
and with childlike smiles she steps to the path of her ventures
till night come speeding down the dusty road once again seeking the hand of fairest maidens once again when day flees
to her wearied bed in the west
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
How many great fables
Do tell of the battle
Between good and evil
Light and dark?
Arise hearts of sunshine!
Cast your strong rays
To banish the darkness
Of unchecked destruction!
The pathways of disappointment
Must be challenged
The disconnectedness of spirit
Must be reconnected
Abject Despair
Must transform into hope
Bitter numbness
Must not be accommodated
Fanfares will herald
The rise of humanity
Earth will be cherished
And life will abound
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
Fanfares resounding
the crowd all too big
cheers around me
you stand on the stage
but they're not clapping for you.
My feet carry me closer and closer to you.
after all these years I'm still yours
there's no doubt about it.
I'm with you now, together onstage
but they're not clapping for you.
and while I might be yours
even after all those ****** years
tonight
the fanfares, the crowds, the cheers
are all for me.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
I am from the past, who didn’t quite know when to grow.
From locked doors to the grassland below.
I am from the barrier that guards dangerously.
But within, carelessly.
I am from the smears,
that obtain memories
within a frame.
Where these lay on the shelves of revival,
containing hope for the unknown prospective
that we yet to see.
I am from broken flesh,
mourning to be stabilized.
I am from colours, aimlessly falling from virtuosity,
controlled by ferocity.
Where fanfares erupt into paradise,
and hallucinations rupture.
Where I’m from, emotions get merged into blackness,
struggling to reach the vivid axis.
Now, I embrace my differences,
letting go of references,
grasping to the importance of life itself.
Where I'm from,
none of this occurred.
I now cross the line,
that never was yet to make,
and find ambition within the space.
It's my calling to surrender the actuality
to the mentality.
To unchain the affliction
from the prediction
all teens are held to.
Where I'm from, makes me who I am,
without the destruction,
and the scramming effect.
I am from a war,
that has just conquered love.
In this exact moment,
my quest has not been completed.
The revision of the universe
still holds within my time slot,
gradually fading away
with every step I take.
On my wall,
I clasp to the movement
that wasn’t fully satisfied.
Swinging from the clothespins,
clinching to what was left behind.
I am from these callings,
yelling to break the norms,
that my past had inforced.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
We're all born screaming
While screams echo back
And one day we learn
To hold our screams in check
But the world keeps on screaming
Its groans ignore our reluctance
Tearing through our dreams
Persistently confronting us
The only source of peace for us
Are Jesus' gentle whispers
They serve as a quiet respite
For those who are able to listen
And soon the whispers clarify
The groans from the world around
These aren't cries of anger
But pleas to be unbound
Creation itself cries out
For rescue by its maker
To be allowed to at last fulfil
The purpose it was made for
And so our eyes are opened
To the reason for our screams
We cry with all creation
For a full and final release
And Jesus hears our cries
He's not deaf to our prayers
He'll come again in his glory
With earthshaking fanfares
Our cries will turn to song
Secure in a brand new earth
Creator and creation in harmony
Echoing glad cries of new birth
So a new born baby's screams
Shouldn't come as any surprise
They are simply giving echo
To creation's longing sighs.
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
Time
Such a vexing thing
Such a mesmerising prospect
Time turns towards our trials, our tribulations
Our tantalizing treats told in tender tales
Time
The end, the beginning
The wheel forever spinning
Forever moving forward
Forever moving on
Forever
All things end, but do they really?
Though all you see is all you know
Connections thrive aplenty
The greats, the ancients, Da Vinci, Cleopatra
They all live on in the minds of the present
Remembered by many, not truly lost
Nothing is lost
Time
Time brings love, laughter, joy
Death, sadness, suffering, pain, life
Life is pain
Life is love
Life is death
But after everything life ends
Some end dramatically, with blazing fanfares
Others depart with whispered words
But all are remembered
Not truly lost
Nothing is ever lost
Time
Life’s eternal cycle forever turns
Inescapable pain forever
Time
The cruel master of us all
Time is money?
Not even close
Time is pain
Time is infinite, unending forever cycling pain
Time
People
People live through pain
They create love, laughter, happiness, joy
Time gives them pain and they push it back
Pain everlasting, pain ever growing
People ever living, People persevering
Time
Pain
Life
Death
It all comes down to people
People
People like you, people like me
People like all those who live life while they can
People who couldn’t
Time
Time gives life
Time takes life
Forever cycling
Never ending
Pain
Pain unending
Pain everlasting
People
Suffering
Enduring
All of it ends in life
So go forth and live
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Rubens, fleuve d'oubli, jardin de la paresse,
Oreiller de chair fraîche où l'on ne peut aimer,
Mais où la vie afflue et s'agite sans cesse,
Comme l'air dans le ciel et la mer dans la mer ;
Léonard de Vinci, miroir profond et sombre,
Où des anges charmants, avec un doux souris
Tout chargé de mystère, apparaissent à l'ombre
Des glaciers et des pins qui ferment leur pays,
Rembrandt, triste hôpital tout rempli de murmures,
Et d'un grand crucifix décoré seulement,
Où la prière en pleurs s'exhale des ordures,
Et d'un rayon d'hiver traversé brusquement ;
Michel-Ange, lieu vague où l'on voit des Hercules
Se mêler à des Christs, et se lever tout droits
Des fantômes puissants qui dans les crépuscules
Déchirent leur suaire en étirant leurs doigts ;
Colères de boxeur, impudences de faune,
Toi qui sus ramasser la beauté des goujats,
Grand coeur gonflé d'orgueil, homme débile et jaune,
Puget, mélancolique empereur des forçats,
Watteau, ce carnaval où bien des coeurs illustres,
Comme des papillons, errent en flamboyant,
Décors frais et légers éclairés par des lustres
Qui versent la folie à ce bal tournoyant ;
Goya, cauchemar plein de choses inconnues,
De foetus qu'on fait cuire au milieu des sabbats,
De vieilles au miroir et d'enfants toutes nues,
Pour tenter les démons ajustant bien leurs bas ;
Delacroix, lac de sang hanté des mauvais anges,
Ombragé par un bois de sapins toujours vert,
Où, sous un ciel chagrin, des fanfares étranges
Passent, comme un soupir étouffé de Weber ;
Ces malédictions, ces blasphèmes, ces plaintes,
Ces extases, ces cris, ces pleurs, ces Te Deum,
Sont un écho redit par mille labyrinthes ;
C'est pour les coeurs mortels un divin ***** !
C'est un cri répété par mille sentinelles,
Un ordre renvoyé par mille porte-voix ;
C'est un phare allumé sur mille citadelles,
Un appel de chasseurs perdus dans les grands bois !
Car c'est vraiment, Seigneur, le meilleur témoignage
Que nous puissions donner de notre dignité
Que cet ardent sanglot qui roule d'âge en âge
Et vient mourir au bord de votre éternité !
507
Va ton chemin sans plus t'inquiéter !
La route est droite et tu n'as qu'à monter,
Portant d'ailleurs le seul trésor qui vaille,
Et l'arme unique au cas d'une bataille,
La pauvreté d'esprit et Dieu pour toi.
Surtout il faut garder toute espérance.
Qu'importe un peu de nuit et de souffrance ?
La route est bonne et la mort est au bout.
Oui, garde toute espérance surtout.
La mort là-bas te dresse un lit de joie.
Et fais-toi doux de toute la douceur.
La vie est laide, encore c'est ta soeur.
Simple, gravis la côte et même chante,
Pour écarter la prudence méchante
Dont la voix basse est pour tenter ta foi.
Simple comme un enfant, gravis la côte,
Humble comme un pécheur qui hait la faute,
Chante, et même sois *** pour défier
L'ennui que l'ennemi peut t'envoyer
Afin que tu t'endormes sur la voie.
Ris du vieux piège et du vieux séducteur,
Puisque la Paix est là, sur la hauteur,
Qui luit parmi des fanfares de gloire.
Monte, ravi, dans la nuit blanche et noire.
Déjà l'Ange Gardien étend sur toi
Joyeusement des ailes de victoire.
351
Pine embellished by Cassiopeia arched over prone morning. Meadowlark laughed, cougars stalked shadows, crow deputies. Bent creek carried silt of spring, sigh of cedar. Cold mist, feathered cloak marked him of eagle and raven. He took part night, river’s depth in bent cedar boxes along grease trails over walls called cordillera. Distantly ships put into several bays. Raven gave up tricking salmon people, at Rose Spit called out first, men. Who had invented dance now demanded war. What speech there was was lament. Undone morning weeps bloodied. Anger-melted gold fills insatiable mouths, shames what night cannot hide. No more hand set to house front, no more ashlar of jasper. Night casts her spears, we have not even time to die. Flee hands which reach from river, children ghost small starving birds. Rejoice in crow’s carrion cruelty, Owl devour those we cannot smother in our desperate escape.
Look up beaten, complaining, supreme. Reconstruction begins in this torpor, a boredom purring heart cannot abolish. Inebriated with the impossible, go past mission outpost’s Gide and a Kempis to the lineage house of men. Hegel whispers I never did believe. Attar extend gender-inflected zero. In the wrong season glisten with sugary neoprene. Belong to at least two countries, Land of Goshen sours. Break into Quechua, haunt cruel Saturdays, look for amigo. Wheat field marries into lion’s eye. Ayacucho fanfares enclose the wind. White-breasted, black-winged, displace requiem. Recover lost chives, cottonwood’s inerrant perfume, shooting stars on the other side of the river. When mountain burns, Eyes-Are-In-Festival yields turquoise. Let him palmer drink iris dry. Sky falls, camas blooms, then this morning white tail flicker in low aspen, chickadee dee dee dee, chickadee dee dee dee.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC
Fiction is such a welcome lie
Under an indifferent sky
Pictures are soaking up the night
Put up some omnipresent light
Not unlike describing colors
Not seeing further anymore
As Time without interruption
Pulls new days back into action
People are the last of their kind
Raise some incoherent hivemind
Mouses all runing down the maze
Moved on by an insolent blaze
There is a place above nothing
Where one could outdo anything
Mountains around just got steeper
Pick at the contextual blur
Fortune seeks only the living
Pulling some omnipotent string
No other task ever given
Courses of fate interwoven
Guiding stray fish out of the sea
An unconscious conspiracy
In disingenuous fanfares
Lets you remember something cares
We've seen it all and we're livid
The illusion is so vivid
Beneath inconsiderate stares
Through such superior softwares
Almighty, calm and innocent
The world always gets its consent
In due blissful incompetence
Adrift yet always on the fence
Amid evermoving edges
In fantasy and in pages
Looking for a new way to find
Another path to nevermind
We call for the puppet master
And Time couldn't go on faster
On teaching us to get a clue
That nothing else that it is true
The tolerance has grown stronger
We could go on for much longer
Through an antidepressant screen
Reliving the anthropocene
Keep on rekindling the fire
Find the end of the quagmire
Drowning existential distress
Alone with anybody's guess
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 12:39 PM UTC
Quand tu me parles de gloire,
Je souris amèrement.
Cette voix que tu veux croire,
Moi, je sais bien qu'elle ment.
La gloire est vite abattue ;
L'envie au sanglant flambeau
N'épargne cette statue
Qu'assise au seuil d'un tombeau.
La prospérité s'envole,
Le pouvoir tombe et s'enfuit.
Un peu d'amour qui console
Vaut mieux et fait moins de bruit.
Je ne veux pas d'autres choses
Que ton sourire et ta voix,
De l'air, de l'ombre et des roses,
Et des rayons dans les bois !
Je ne veux, moi qui me voile
Dans la joie ou la douleur,
Que ton regard, mon étoile !
Que ton haleine, ô ma fleur !
Sous ta paupière vermeille
Qu'inonde un céleste jour,
Tout un univers sommeille.
Je n'y cherche que l'amour !
Ma pensée, urne profonde,
Vase à la douce liqueur,
Qui pourrait emplir le monde,
Ne veut emplir que ton cœur !
Chante ! en moi l'extase coule.
Ris-moi ! c'est mon seul besoin.
Que m'importe cette foule
Qui fait sa rumeur au **** !
Dans l'ivresse où tu me plonges,
En vain, pour briser nos nœuds,
Je vois passer dans mes songes
Les poètes lumineux.
Je veux, quoi qu'ils me conseillent,
Préférer, jusqu'à la mort,
Aux fanfares qui m'éveillent
Ta chanson qui me rendort.
Je veux, dût mon nom suprême
Au front des cieux s'allumer,
Qu'une moitié de moi-même
Reste ici-bas pour t'aimer !
Laisse-moi t'aimer dans l'ombre,
Triste, ou du moins sérieux.
La tristesse est un lieu sombre
Où l'amour rayonne mieux.
Ange aux yeux pleins d'étincelles,
Femme aux jours de pleurs noyés,
Prends mon âme sur tes ailes,
Laisse mon cœur à tes pieds !
Le 12 octobre 1837.
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