lundi 23 novembre 2015


(or the english translation of my poem "somnambule")

As the dead from his grave,
I rise from my bed.
I walk without a sound
Along the shadow path

In my eyes wide open,
Live many colors
Unseen here below,
Making my fears alive

You don't get it, do you?
I have to shut that door,
Move those walls,
Chase the rats away.

You don't see them, do you?
Those hungry monsters.
You don't know that, do you?
I need to speak to them.

I know what they write
On the surface of your bones,
Behind your figures,
In your candid souls.

Only I can decipher
The alphabet of dread.
Only I stay awake,
To hold the watchtower.

It is no less than rape
I struggle to escape,
The weight of the spider
Who's crushing me under.

Down that bottomless night
Live wasps of giant height,
Clinging to the ceiling,
Waiting, waiting, waiting

So I speak alone.
Sometimes I yell,
Tearing out of my throat
The many stings they put.

You are way too many
Here at my soulside
Sticking to the eyes
I once claimed mine.

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