THE LAST DANCER (part 8)

UN NUAGE DANS LA MAIN


Je veux danser, un nuage dans la main.
Attraper les poussières du soleil
et en faire d’autres mondes de festins.
Seule sur la terre des rouges volcans,
à mille lieux de tout destin éphémère,
j’accrocherai au ciel limpide les ombres
de mes voilages onctueux.
Mes mains traceront des lignes
que mes pas assoiffés suivront.
Je veux danser avec
une caresse dans ma main.
je la dresserai au dessus des rouges volcans
Pour qu’au loin elle t’appelle,
mon amour, à venir me rencontrer.
Alors ensemble de nos mains,
nous danserons le future et ses lignes
que nos pas suivront pour rejoindre
le sublime de l’instant sans fin.

Je veux danser, un nuage dans la main,
Pour y accrocher mon âme
A coté de tes pas.

WITH A CLOUD IN THE HAND

I want to dance, a cloud in the hand.
To catch dusts of the sun
and to make them to be
other worlds of feasts.
Only on the ground of the red volcanoes,
to thousand places of any ephemeral destiny,
I will hang to the limpid sky
the shades of my unctuous veils.
My hands will trace lines
that my thirsty steps will follow.
I want to dance with
a caress in my hand.
I will draw it up above
the top of the red volcanoes
So that with far it calls you,
my love, to come to meet me.
Then together of our hands,
we will dance the future and its lines
that our steps will follow to join
the sublime of a moment without any end.

I want to dance, a cloud in the hand,
to hang my heart there
by the side of your steps.

To my wife Tiezy, the last dancer...

The Ring

A circle to complete the circle – a brief stop of time and space – my tears pouring down on my cheek – slid at my finger, it won’t be took back – a band of metal around my flesh shivering to say indelibly the pledge of a promise – It crossed ocean and sea to come at my door, knock down my heartbeat of sparkles and intoxication –
And this ring to my finger melted have the color of your purity and the comfort of a caress – A ring at my life, a symbol that sings all future morning of blessed awakening – write my name on yours, and I will wear yours proudly at my tattooed skin – Write Ovie on your ring and Tiezy on mine – those two names now, are unsessile – as long as white gold crosses through century – A ring to my finger have made me to cry on my blessing.

Wanderer in the dark alley.

I have been wandering
For hours and days
Under the arches
Of the dark alley.
Though the obscurity
I perceived for a moment
Fleeting brighter trace
Of a distant escape,
But always and always
My footsteps turned
In cold somber circles
Around that white haze.
And always and always
The end opened on
Another beginning.
Losing the less memory
Of a truth forever concealed
in the substance
Of an immaterial reality.
Truth doesn’t exist
As a continuum
But as fragmentation
And the intervals
To hold fathomless
Shadowed mysteries.
As if the truth
Cannot be revealed
In its whole light
But sequenced,
Being so unbearable.
And for the wanderer
I am suppose to be,
To walk under the arches
Of the dark alley
Is like an eternity
Of endless again
In a time line
With death at the end.