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Poem

-
It was a love that spoke for itself,
as natural as a poem
which grows in a flower
at the end of its rod.
without ever having confessed it,
I have never conjugated the verb to love.

Life goes like this:
we don't know if she goes ahead
or slips through our fingers:

The most beautiful roses fade,
not their beauty,
but through death, which takes everything away.

Today I bury her,
but the words I intended say to her,
will never reach her heart.

Sleeping Beauty,
who knows , if ultimately
the kiss of my thought

will be able to turn times upside down
as well as a film played backwards,
giving the petals the radiance of their colors:

It's a love that speaks for itself,
as natural as a poem,
that you take to your grave.

-
(originally  written in french... see below )

-


C'est un amour qui parlait de lui-même, 
aussi naturel qu'un poème
qui se développe en fleur
au bout de sa tige .
Sans l'avoir jamais avoué,
je n'ai jamais conjugué le verbe aimer.

La vie se déroule ainsi:
on ne sait si elle  va de l'avant
ou file entre nos  doigts :

Les plus belles  roses  se fanent,
non pas leur beauté,
mais par la mort, qui vient  tout  emporter.

Aujourd'hui je l'enterre,
mais les mots que je lui destine,
n'atteindront jamais  son cœur .

Belle au bois dormant,
qui sait en fin de compte
si le baiser de ma pensée 

pourra remontera le temps,
ainsi qu'un film passé à l'envers,
redonnant aux pétales l'éclat de ses couleurs :

C'est un amour qui parle de lui-même, 
aussi naturel qu'un poème ,
que tu emportes  dans ta tombe .

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