Poésie pour le temps courant / Poetry for Current Times

It’s written on my face I should leave it to dust
And all the people I know I should leave tomorrow
It’s not that I don’t love it’s not that I don’t trust
All this burden is gold but I just have to go

All the beauties I met in random museums 
Crossing the countryside then running into towns 
Lost pieces of my mind in cities I’ll never go again
All the paintings written and them musicians at the corner

Meet me again on the way to the infinite land
I give you an appointment you would honour me
I know we’re all waiting for this moment to grow
And to be born and be born again and again

I know there are the rivers that flow back
I know there are the flowers in a voice I hear
In a whirl of streams all the foreigner tongues
That I will never speak offered in a majestic lack 

It’s written in our hands that life is a double mirror
Like a half-opened door in a wooden staircase
It takes a lot you dare to warm up at this light
When you know all you love marks a postponed trace

To be brave to be obedient only the slave is free
It’s written in the echo of your stiletto heels
Beating a slow bolero in a mute cathedral
Tampered with a bunch of rays through the stained glasses