Mer de Desirs - Sea of Desires
Santiago du Calme ?
Je ne voyais pas toujours l'Eros de tes doigts
Mais tes yeux passionnés m'érotisaient toujours
Où étais-tu pendant toutes ces années ?
Etais-tu retournée à la montagne des Haines ?
Je me souviendrai toujours de l'éclat de tes doigts
L'odeur de ta peau ne pouvait venir que d'ailleurs
Tu étais la rose du désert qui poussait dans le froid
Je ne comprenais pas d'où te venait cette grâce improbable
Qui semblait te faire vaciller à chaque pas
Et te retirer l'air des poumons alors que tu l'aspirais
La foule te pressait contre son sein et tu t'échappa
Les morts sans corps
Vous n'avez pas d'épitaphe
Vous n'avez pas de restes
De vous pas même poussière ne subsiste
Vous étiez fugaces rayons au soleil
Vous étiez parcourant la terre
Mais tout s'éteint et tout s'évapore
Vous dormiez sur la paille
Vous dormiez sous les étoiles
Dormez maintenant tranquilles
Vous creusiez les sols
Vous montiez les saules
Misère que la main qui vous menace
Vous nagiez dans les mers glacées
Vous nagiez dans les airs sifflants
De vos gestes nul ne sait
Vous marchiez et couriez
Vous mangiez et souffriez
Maintenant toute souffrance est vaine
Vous êtes terre
The Farmer and the Greenwood
An old farmer lived with his wife in a small cottage a little ways away from the nearest village. They were poor, and had very little in terms of material possessions. Nevertheless, they were a religious couple, and were quite content.
One day, when returning from a day's work in the fields, the farmer came into the cottage with the intention of eating the supper his wife had surely fixed him that day, only to discover that his wife was, in fact, gone. She had been baking bread earlier that day, and a message was drawn in the flour on the table. Though uneducated and illiterate, the farmer was at once able to recognize the writing as being i
The Baron: PrologueAnother funeral. I flopped down onto my bed and sighed inwardly. Didn't anyone ever get tired of these things? Not in Lutetia, that was for sure. Here, death is the hand that turns the wheel of society. People attend funerals more often than Catholics attend Mass. Our obsession with the morbid, what some would consider taboo, reveals itself in the way we lay our dead to rest, in our prayers and songs, in our festivals and art, and in the books and poems we read. It takes form as a God, an all-powerful Creator, whom we have modestly dubbed the Baron.
The Baron is responsible for all war, starvation and hardship, and as a punishment for the s
Blood"What is this, brother?" he cried out, thrusting his cut wrist beneath my nose. I inhaled the scent, registered the liquid flowing from it, before I responded.
"Damn right it is," he snarled, yanking his arm away and flicking his tongue across it as if it were wine. "Blood. Our blood, human blood, what does it matter? Others spill it for glory, rivers run red with it, it travels down once-peaceful streets after innocents are massacred. It gives us life, but once it starts to leave, life goes with it."
I took a step back. "You've gone mad," I whispered.
"Madness is relative. You see it in me, and to you I am mad." His arm shot out