My inner language

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 ?