Un Amour Futile (A Futile Love)
LIFE (Vie)
Life, a fire, stutters tripping over stars and moons,
born of echoes of the laughters of light.
She dances on prolific afternoons and sings-
with flutters of breath in the chill of night.
In the stirring of blackbirds elle cherche raison. (she looks for reason)
At twilight she walks quietly next to death
and together they paint the last of the horizon
using only the colors of her final breath.
Hand in hand the flame becomes fainted,
in the flicker of an instance they were smiling-
They were well acquainted.
DEATH (Mort)
In the silhouette of day
A polite breeze still and stiff
carries Death- a rain soaked plié,
and he whispers,"N'être pas craintif" (do not be timid)
cooling
calm
cold
conviction.
Wildly, he gathers life with a futile embrace and
breathes a gentle melody, apologetic in his afflictions
He kills with the finest grace.
Theres a sunrise in the opaque dawning,
La nuit est la mort du jour (the night is the death of day)
In the morning the blackbirds will be yawning
La nuit- il mourra accoucher (the night- it will die to deliver)
The morning, the morning!
His chilly hand gently whispers, "Have no fear,
Sans l'obscurité il ne peut pas y avoir de lumière"
(without the dark there can be no light)
Life, a fire, stutters tripping over stars and moons,
born of echoes of the laughters of light.
She dances on prolific afternoons and sings-
with flutters of breath in the chill of night.
In the stirring of blackbirds elle cherche raison. (she looks for reason)
At twilight she walks quietly next to death
and together they paint the last of the horizon
using only the colors of her final breath.
Hand in hand the flame becomes fainted,
in the flicker of an instance they were smiling-
They were well acquainted.
DEATH (Mort)
In the silhouette of day
A polite breeze still and stiff
carries Death- a rain soaked plié,
and he whispers,"N'être pas craintif" (do not be timid)
cooling
calm
cold
conviction.
Wildly, he gathers life with a futile embrace and
breathes a gentle melody, apologetic in his afflictions
He kills with the finest grace.
Theres a sunrise in the opaque dawning,
La nuit est la mort du jour (the night is the death of day)
In the morning the blackbirds will be yawning
La nuit- il mourra accoucher (the night- it will die to deliver)
The morning, the morning!
His chilly hand gently whispers, "Have no fear,
Sans l'obscurité il ne peut pas y avoir de lumière"
(without the dark there can be no light)
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