C’est pour Bingo qui changea ma vie.
Si Dieu le veut je la marie…
Cette sonnette prouvante que je l’écrire,
Dit: je sens plus pur que Shakespeare.
I considered love as a waste of time;
Fearful and flaming tongues of fire,
Possessing it, as if it would be mine,
Raising, feeding it high and higher,
Pouring all the essence of my heart,
My mortal clay as frozen carcass,
Tryna seek for warmth at her hearth,
Dreaming without holdin‘ purpose.
But now! The fire is smooth as water;
It flows jingling as a secret source.
No, Bingo! Drink not it‘s hot! Wait her!
Wait for it in God’s sake and course!
As well, I am waitin’ for you Bingo, just keep it hot;
Wait and let no bliss for Ibliss, but keep it for God.
Once, I had a cherry tree-
It cherished with sour and sweet fruits to me.
Its taste, its odor are still with me –
Its red colour enlivens me.
You see, now, why I’m a lover –
Of the cherry soap, under the shower.
You see, now, why I’m a smoker –
Of cherry cigar while I was an anti-smoker.
I’d cherish a fresh cherry breath for my last words said,
I would cherish a cherry pillow and bed when I am dead.
Stack my years behind me and those in front,
Rush then with them to a battlefront
That ends in a mass grave.
Stack my years and throw them into fire,
Burning a forest if there’s no hellfire
Just to make a mess.
Stack my years I lived and set them
Like dominos, then let them
To fall apart.
Stack my years in a messy writing
Needing a thousand rewriting,
Then, just delete.
Do whatever you want, please,
Just make it end, please,
A fog in the whitest colour has been following her
Like spectral shawls caressing her back.
In her face, it brightly swirls, hiding and enlightening her
Like illusive daydreams of an insomniac.
A white mist has danced around her deadly mysteriously,
Pushing the world into long oblivion.
In the center of it, she were standing lighthousely,
Calling the attention of a Hungarian.
Like a cyclone, she flew away with that mysterious mist,
Leaving only dim ruins and empty nests.
I was lost in her, but there’s no other mist I would get lost,
Missing her only in my every breaths.
The happier she is, the more it will be her fault;
The sadder I am, the more I will be the victim
While it’s my guilt – it is always me and me
Who cannot get through of his thoughts.
My reasoning has weakened already;
I can only blame my long misery
And myself and myself again
For running in obscurity.
My words are limited;
I wasted so many
But not on her
Not for her.
(I just only wish if I had some more words
Like a thousand or a quadrillion
Turning back time again
To tell you I’m sorry.)
Roads go crix-crax
As life does.
When they cross,
A story comes
With its secrets,
With its loads.
There’s a crossroad
Where’s a tree.
Under the tree,
There’s a load
That no one should see.
Where’s the crossroad,
A tree is seen
Who has only one sin
That it is sorrowed
By the secret burrowed
Under the tree.
On the crossroad,
Leaves are seen.
They are keen
Since they’re sorrowed
By written tears followed
That everyone can see.
Where’s the crossroad,
Mortals were seen.
When trees weren’t seen,
Both were mellowed.
They eternally burrowed
A secret under a tree.
There’s the crossroad
Where’s the tree.
Under the tree,
There’s the load
That no one would feel.
The door’s opened by Hitchcock.
A room of an infant’s memory :
Dolls, dust and instant delivery
Of some goosbumping horror-dolls.
They laugh while their head rolls,
Sitting hither-thither on the shelf,
Pressing shiver on my self.
Oh, that emberassing cymbals!
And what these, embracing symbols?!
I witness my old past on the wall :
I numbly follow the arc of a ball
From a dark dusty wardrobe lanced,
Arrived on mom’s garden’s land.
The scene of children holding ice cream,
Mine is splashed on earth.. why I scream.
The bullies of my old young ages
Made me write so many crying pages,
Made me a prisoner of this room,
Made me locked in it with my gloom.
I don’t even know how long ago
Has been waiting for me this lego
To face it as a challenge, as a fear.
I did it. I entered. Je suis fière.
I’m facing it only with acceptance;
This horror is a part of my stance.
J’ai changé mais la chambre bête reste.
I’m free. I’m wiser. Thanks that mess.