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Il se cache

dans l’ombre

tisser des feuilles

vert camouflage

au-dessous d’une arbre

Debout, flottant

esprit habille en homme

il m’attende

dans l’ombre

des mes rêves…

 

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This could have been the day

The portents came late

Noon had passed

Life was waning

Sun so bright

Not bright enough for the shadows

That fell

One by one

Upon filaments of hope

Whispers of prayers

Scent of love

The shadows fell

The day followed

Something still remained

Breath-less

Till tomorrow

 

 

 

give

don’t ask

when in need

don’t ask

when harmed

don’t ask

when praised

don’t ask

rewarded

don’t ask

granted

don’t ask

forgiven

don’t question…

 

 

 

I dream of sleep

as snow falls

and butterflies

shudder

 

 

 

 

Five years after he died, my Father came back. I found him sitting in the middle of my room, in a straight-backed chair, looking out the window. It was still dark, the curtains were drawn but I could sense he was seeing something. Dad? He did not turn around at first. I held my breath and closed my eyes. Mili, he said softly and I opened them again. Mili, is it snowing? He was still facing the window, his hands on his lap; small, delicate hands of an artist. Or a child. I stood behind him and gently touched his shoulder. I felt the coarse fabric of his jacket but the sensation was fleeting, my fingers caressed air. Slowly he turned and looked at me with the eyes I see in the mirror every morning. Our eyes. Yes, it’s snowing, I answered before opening the curtain. The street was deserted. Quiet. Snow-less. And then, as I looked, flakes began appearing and disappearing like fireflies, and soon the air was dancing, swirling, and I heard him say: there! It snowed all day. Perhaps it was just for a minute. Time ebbed. It muted and dissipated the light, and soon it was dark again. I was alone. Walking past the empty chair to the window, I hesitated. The curtain opened onto a quiet street, the pavement diluted in white…

 

I hear them, a cacophony of languages as alien as they are frighteningly familiar, each word a garble, an utterance of pain, of horror, gurgling remains of a roar, for all that is left in the lungs is barely enough to carry the pain to its conclusion.

 

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
Alone, By Edgar Allan Poe
Art: Eleni Nikologlou; Photography, “In the Shadow of Memory”

 

 

doubled in pain

bent in half

body undone

sliced in half

grief in motion

life ends

and continues

in pain…

 

Art: Francis Bacon

 

Art: Piotr Lichwierowicz

 

How wonderful it would be

to stop counting time

forget one’s age

one’s height

one’s past

no hours or minutes

just moon and sun

and endless freedom

to discover

one’s age

one’s wisdom

the world

Art: Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory (1931)