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.

VIOLENT


From deep fates of snakes’ sneaking
I sail the obscure night awaked
at the backyard of crucified veils.
Being crushed once more at the stake
In all ruins of my heart.
I watch the somber sun drawing itself
at its own watered blood.
And my hand to dig the tattoos
Engraved suddenly at my chest.
Tattoos of red anger
Bleeding tears liquid grief.

From deep fates of a truth
Suddenly reeling
Under the violent surge
I watch the devilish one
To seed a my feet
The poisoned blossoms.
Harvest of an eternal roaming
That drives this night
to a never ending chant.
The sun already forgot
To awake my senses.

I will die once again
At the assault of Satan.
And my glorious flag
To look like the less of the pale.
My eyes will close
On the infinite wait.
Clouds of darkness
Bring a rainstorm of hate.
And its wild fluttering rain
Will flood on me
As dawn on braves.


White night never have been so obscure….


.

ANTICIPATION...

Depuis mon enfance, je suis un être très « sensible ». Mis sur le compte d’une « hyperémotivité », J’ai été catalogué comme « garçon difficile ».
Et c’est vrai que c’était difficile. Pour les autres, mais aussi pour moi.
Mes violentes colères paraissaient souvent démesurées
Devenu adulte, j’ai cherché à savoir pourquoi. Pourquoi soudainement, un flot de révolte m’envahissait, ou bien une profonde tristesse m’engloutissait sans vraiment de raison. De longues années de solitude. J’ai pris des calmants, vu des psys.
Finalement, ce qui m’a aidé le plus, c’est la création, l’ « art ».
Mais tout cela ne faisait que me calmer sans me donner la réponse à la question « Pourquoi ? »
Pourquoi ces courants violents au fond de moi ? Pourquoi je réagissais si fort à des situations pourtant ordinaires ?
Un début de réponse est venu des chansons que j’écrivais par dizaines aussi facilement que je respirais. Et toutes parlaient de la souffrance.
Etait-ce ma souffrance ? Facile de répondre « non ». Je ne parlais que de la souffrance des autres, celle que j’entendais hurler à mes oreilles, en permanence.
Je voyais quelqu’un, et soudain, je savais ce qu’il allait dire. Et à travers ses mots, je savais son histoire, sa souffrance. Même la plus cachée.
Et tout cela habitait en moi.
La raison de mes colères, de mes révoltes ? Toutes ces voix qui disaient « j’ai mal, j’ai mal ! » et qui me noyaient.
« Mais je n’ai rien fait ! Laissez-moi ! »
Alors j’agressais les gens. Pour qu’ils s’éloignent, pour qu’il me laisse tranquille.
Puis j’ai appris.
Appris que ces souffrances pouvaient être apaisées. Alors j’ai aidé.
Aidé les autres à y voir plus clair en eux. Aidé les autres à trouver leur chemin vers leur sérénité.
J’étais devenu si « aidant » que c’était une longue file de gens qui venaient me voir pour toutes leurs blessures. De la simple peine de cœur, jusqu’à des trucs étranges, limites sorcelleries. Et moi, j’évacuais dans mes chansons la merde de leurs égouts.
Car finalement, moi, je ne souffrais pas. C’est la souffrance des autres qui me faisait souffrir.
Il m’aura fallu longtemps, très longtemps, pour comprendre cela.

La vie est, qu’on l’accepte ou non, beaucoup plus subtile que ce qu’on croit.
Une majeure partie de notre « destin » se joue derrière le voile des apparences.
Les énergies qui circulent de part le monde (l’univers ?) influencent notre devenir au plus au point.
La souffrance ne se guérit pas, mais anticiper les événements qui la déclencheront permet de l’éviter.
Anticiper rationnellement est impossible. « L’effet papillon » est impossible à calculer.
Par contre, le déplacement que provoquent les événements dans l’énergie est perceptible de loin. Comme le tonnerre qu’on entend avant de voir l’orage.
Les animaux le font, pourquoi pas nous ?
Moi, c’est ce qui m’arrive. Mon hypersensibilité me fait « sentir » ces choses. A mon grand désespoir, pour l’instant.
Désespoir, car si pour moi, cette perception anticipé m’aide à naviguer dans le tumulte de la vie, ceux qui viennent me demander mon aide ne veulent rien entendre de cela.
La solution se trouve avant le problème. Lorsque le problème apparait, la solution était hier.
Mais qui se soucis de cela ?




Since my childhood, I am a very “sensitive” being. Recorded as an “excess emotionality”, I was considered as a “rough boy”.
And it was truly difficult. For others, as for me.
My violent angers appeared often disproportionate
Become adult, I sought to know why. Why suddenly, a flood of revolt invaded me, or a deep sadness absorbed me without really a reason. Long years of loneliness. I took pills, seen shrinks… No answer.
Finally, what did helped me the most was creation, “art”.
All of that did calmed me, but no answering to the question “why?”
Why these violent currents deep inside? Why did I reacted so extremely to situations however ordinary?
A beginning of answer came from the songs which I easily wrote as per tens as I breathed. And all spoke about the suffering.
Was this suffering mine ? Easy to answer “not”. I spoke only about others' suffering which I heard screaming at my ears, permanently.
I was seeing somebody, and sudden, I knew what he was about to say. And through his words, I knew his story, his suffering. Even the most hidden.
And all that lived in me.
Reason of my angers, my revolts? All these voices which said “I have pain, I feel bad ! ” and that drowned me.
“But I did do nothing! Leave me alone! ”
So I started to aggress people. To make them to move away, to leave me quiet.
Then I learnt.
Learnt that these sufferings could be soothed. So I helped.
Helped the others to see there more clearly in themselves. Helped the others to find their own way towards their serenity.
I had become so “helping” that it was a long line of people coming to see me for all their wounds. Simple heartbreak, until strange tricks, edging sorceries. , I evacuated in my songs the shit of their sewers.
Because finally, I did not suffer. Others’ distress made me suffer.
It took me a long time, very a long time, to understand that.
Life is, accepted or not, much more subtle than one believes.
A main part of our “destiny” is played behind the veil of appearances.
Energies which run the world (universe?) influence our becoming at a highest point.
The suffering is not to cure. But to anticipate the events which will start it makes it possible to avoid.
To anticipate rationally is impossible. “The butterfly effect” is impossible to calculate.
On the other hand, displacement that the events cause in energy is perceptible by far. As the thunder which one hears before seeing the storm.
The animals do it, why not us?
That is what happened to me. My over-sensitiveness makes me “feel” these things. For my despair, for the moment.
Despair, because if this anticipated perception helps me to sail in the tumult of life, those who come to require my assistance do not want to hear anything about that.
The solution is ahead the problem. When the problem appears, the solution was yesterday.
But who cares about that?
Nobody I know, it seems.