In the realm where Fall
neither begins nor ends
a needy poet found
gold in a river,
amazing treasure
elves hadn’t even bothered to hide.

Singing streams still remember
the wordless prayer
he thankfully wrote on the wind
whispering through the trees,
and for all I know
in the forest of many wonders

he struck it rich.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


Forêt de Rambouillet (France) © 2015 – F.G.M.

It is not a leather-bound book
standing proudly on a rosewood shelf.
It does not curse at misbelievers,
and cannot be used as an excuse.

Manuscript penned for every child of God,
calligraphy on silk paper,
it is the Bible of the Poor and consists of
only one word written in all languages.

Both the Blind and the Illiterate
can read those simple lines of light
for the Heart already knows
the Word revealed in the Bible of the Poor,

the only way that we can live,
the only way that we can grow,
the Bible of the Poor,
la Bible de l’Amour.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

oil on canvas 50 x 50.5 cm

I love an Island where fragile flowers defy
both basalt and Death. An Island called Exile.
It is black and red. It belongs to the Sea.
It appeals to the stars, its rocks teach Eternity.

The die is cast, broken Motherland,
and soon it will be time to leave you.
But your language flows through my soul
like a river of fire,

and as long as I can breathe,
I will write on every wall
whether made from silence
or from ignorance,

the word you never should have forgotten:
France, forever in my heart,
may you rest in peace.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


Illustration : Ria Munk am Totenbett, Gustave Klimt (1912)

J’aime une île rouge et noire où des fleurs fragiles
avec courage défient le basalte et la Mort.
Une île où la mer inlassablement
chante l’immensité, Dieu, l’éternité,

et j’en fais ma patrie, celle que j’ai choisie.
Ainsi, je me rêve en Exil, loin de toi,
triste Nation dont la langue pourtant,
ce sang brûlant, coule jusque dans mon âme.

Et je sais que Liberté et Fraternité,
sont deux étoiles étincelantes
qui dans mon coeur, en souvenir de toi,
jamais ne s’éteindront.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

Tomorrow and the day after
you won’t be alone:
it’s written in stone,
just written in stone.

Won’t you be
risen from the dead?
Didn’t He lead you
beside peaceful streams?

Your eyes get teary,
your soul is weary,
but Love warms your heart
and now you feel stronger.

Not alone,
never alone:
it’s written in stone,
just written in stone.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

You left

like a small feather in the wind,
white feather in the wind
twirling and dancing
small feather in the wind.

You rose up in the sky then disappeared.
But who could ever doubt
a mother’s heart,
a small feather in the wind?

And now you are the light of stars,
a sonata of silent love,
the sweet reason
I never feel


© Frédéric Georges Martin


we are not
dreaming they are

we are
believing they only are


nous ne sommes pas
des lucioles
rêvant d’être
des étoiles

nous sommes
des étoiles
qui croient n’être que
des lucioles

© Frédéric Georges Martin


Illustration : The Starry Night, Vincent Van Gogh (1889)