Villanelle : Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Nor of how déchets comets shunted life to arid earth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Wildly lashing oceans marked the limits of our maws
When travel slithered on foot mountains did us girth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
How many the astral bodies how shiny the lights of yores
Would clog up the firmament to keep us from eternal truth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Flights of human minds forged in the blasts of quasars
Can in no way enlighten the frigidity of the hearth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Even if life down hère could have evolved brazen bizarres
Pluck not excuses from the skies aloof to comfort us in mirth
What’s our life worth if we live in mangers as bores
Much rather stop this brilliant race from owning stars
Than believe in the sacrosanct rule of space by earth
Talk not of the birth of planets around distant stars
Will life be chaste if we stoke more monstrous maws
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Are your eyes the green of a shamrock's leaf,
or your nose the tide that comes and runs?
Is your skin the plains of pearls and perplexities,
your hair the curtain to a rainforest peace?
Could be your ears the caverns where rarities dwell,
and your shoulders belfries that will never ring?
May your chest be a wound that never swells,
and your heart be the silence that learns how to sing
Is your hand a ten-minute first-light,
your fingers the fleeting moment that stays?
Might your arms ensphere the the broken, the evil, the cold,
bring what ends, for sure, to the prelude, alright?
Your legs and feet, perhaps, lucid dreams and strange fools,
with bizarres and bazaars, eccentricities galore,
Playing with colors, creatures, the cosmos, the rules,
that no matter duration, leave invocation for more?
Your mind calculates, creates, contemplates, is there,
But without You, none of these could ever, ever be.
For without the green of a shamrock's leaf,
the vastest of woodlands would seem nothing but bare.
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