what\'s this mysterious language
spoken in the depths of my thought ?
It rolls rough peebles across endless steppes
at the gallop of nervous little horses
or on this long ocean ,sweetness of female vowels.
Sometimes child of the twister
violent embrace of the senses
mantra descending from the Himalaya
ancient memory manuscript
message of the angel in the desert...
My inner language ,Provence torrent
carnival in flemish lands
between the towers from Bruges to Gand ,
taking time out for a \'\' Tour de France ! \'\'
Lingering over the disturbing remains
of the beauty engraved on a wall of Pompei,
Moon lips whispering to me ...
Happy who like Ulysse has made a marvellous voyage !
Here,I am again in this haughty temple
of modernist discourses,where philosophers
without pastures,argue for the universal novlang !
My english is a mix of multiple accents
far from the shores of the Thames
and Liverpool docks ...
Babble of a child looking for words
in a dictionary without rhyme and reason ...
I decline the everyday vocative
sometime coming up against the enigma
of an ideogram born of a confused feeling...
In how many idioms have I not learned
to say I love you ?
My inner language ,melody of a lagoon
stirred by the desire of trade winds...
Poet of all bitter derisions
who think his pen out of venison ...
Am I nothing more than the awakening
of sleeping words echoing
through the corridors of an empty castel ?