Les Insultes et leurs douleurs

Tears raining in May

As morning turned into afternoon

and me spending in bed all day.

Wasn't expecting to see you very soon,

in fact you had just left in may. 

With wounds still so very open,

and me everyday missing you.

My soul left on the ground broken

wishing to hear one more time: I love you too. 

By Babette Stolk

IV.

Died has the smouldering fire of day,

Its embers still glow in the westerly sky,

Soon they’ll give way to the darkness of night.

A slow-moving shade creeps from the cold east,

Hiding the world with its black starry cloak,

Everywhere under the bright colours fade,

Thicker grow shadows in corners and cracks.

Just as a sickness creeps over a man,

Paling the face and stealing its redness,

Surrounding the eyes with ill boding black,

Seeping the life from a body once strong.

Quiet’s the world with slow idle sleep,

Its creatures depart for the dreamy realm,

The woods and the fields and the high mountain peaks,

Lonely they listen to Silence’s song.

A frost bringing wind just howls in the dark,

Its voice undisturbed by bustling day,

Calm’s all around in this shadowy waste,

Peaceful and quiet is starry-eyed Night.

The Dionysian

III.

II.

Little by little the darkness recedes,

Giving its way to the dawn’s early light,

Rising the song of the birds in the trees,

Making again the world coloured and bright.

Awoken are beasts from their night’s slumber,

Arisen are men to work through the day.

And anew bustles all the world under,

Touched and adorned by the sun’s golden rays.

See now the monk upon the high hills,

Singing the song which for ages was sung.

And on his aged words the world round him stills,

Heard is his prayer to life-giver sun.

by the Dionysian

I.

There is no sin in killing,

So the poet Virgil sang,

The only crime in slaying,

Is to kill a guiltless man.

When battle shouts are ringing,

And death the warrior sows,

The victim’s life is fleeing,

But the sower’s glory grows.

The vengeful spirit’s storming,

When offenders meet the blade,

And then the storms are stilling,

For justice has been made.

There is no sin in killing,

So this poet Virgil sang,

The only crime in slaying,

Is to kill a guiltless man.

by the Dionysian

A bed of Autumn leaves

I get scared when I lay down in bed,

When all my thoughts run through my head,

That is the time when they aren't  confined,

When I am a slave of my own mind.

Pluie d'étoiles

photo (c) Mikko Lagerstedt

A simple winter's tale

I heard a story long ago

About a distant land

Where lived a boy, hair white as snow

His name was Merriland.

The town he lived in was a bore

The train passed only twice;

The people there were very old

And didn't seem so nice.

Their eyes were green as emerald

They shined so bright at night;

Though many of them were just bald

No one had hair so bright.

Poor little boy named Merriland

He saw them stare and stare,

He bought a hat from a small band

The price of a train's fare.

He blended in without a sweat

He had turned into glass

And on the streets, brunette, brunette

"I think, produced in mass!"