Entre Cielo y Mar

Ensemble nous avons marché
sur une plage de sable noir.
– Me acuerdo.

Etoiles sans nombre, mondes imaginaires,
en Nous.
– Me maravillo.

Entre Ciel et Mer.
Est-ce là que nous sommes nés ?
– Lo creo.

Pourrons nous retrouver
le chemin de l’immortalité ?
– No lo dudo.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Together we walked
on a black sand beach.
– Me acuerdo.

Countless stars, Dream Worlds,
within Us.
– Me maravillo.

Between Sea and Sky.
Is it the place where we were born?
– Lo creo.

Will we find the path back
to immortality?
– No lo dudo.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Plage de sable noir © 2018 – F.G.M.

The Ivy-Covered Wall

I painted a cloudless sky
and wrote in the air
the Word
transparency.

I tried to think like a bird
and found a way
to go through
the Ivy-Covered Wall.

Now you have gone through
the Ivy-Covered Wall
you can see there was
no wall at all.

The world is One,
you were the limit,
the Light loves ivy
and the bird broke free!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Mur de lierre © 2017 – F.G.M.

Revelation / Révélation

Almost all the leaves have fallen,
the two last roses of the year
do not seem to feel the threat.

Candles cannot replace the sun,
it’s drizzling. I forget.
My soul is poor and wet.

But that is how the World
and the Heart reflect Light.
Winter. Sadness. Beauty.

Revelation.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Presque toutes les feuilles
sont tombées,
et deux roses dernières
ne semblent deviner la menace.

Quelques bougies ne peuvent
remplacer le soleil.
J’oublie. Sur mon âme nue,
il bruine.

Mais c’est ainsi que le monde
et le cœur reflètent la lumière.
Hiver. Tristesse. Beauté.
Révélation.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Deux roses © 2017 – F.G.M.

Paris-loin-de-la-mer

Paris-loin-de-la-mer
you did take me into your arms
when I was born.

Alas, wooden boats of yours
do not know what salt tastes like
nor they hear the mermaids singing.

Paris-loin-de-la-mer
maybe you did make
some of my dreams come true,

but I’m the ungrateful child
of your low skies,
Paris-loin-de-la-mer

and I don’t want to die by your side.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Paris-loin-de-la-mer
tu m’a pris dans tes bras
quand je suis né.

Hélas, tes bateaux de bois
ne connaissent ni le goût du sel
ni n’entendent le chant des sirènes.

Pourtant, Paris-loin-de-la-mer,
quelques-uns de mes rêves
c’est bien toi qui les réalisas.

Mais je suis l’enfant ingrat
de tes ciels bas, aussi,
Paris-loin-de-la-mer,

je veux pas mourir auprès de toi.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Bateaux rêveurs, Paris. © 2017– F.G.M.

The Sign

The island was shrouded in mist.
The sea was calm and I sailed
as if guided by Dolphins and Spirits.

I walked along the pristine beach
and the winding path,
I asked well-known birds for a Sign.

The fog did not lift, the Spirits said nothing
but even before I reached the Painter’s house
I was given a bunch of flowers.

Gorse in bloom, bramble flowers
and dried ferns,
beautiful present from the Heath

that still comforts my heart.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Bouquet Champêtre, îles Chausey © 2017– F.G.M.

Nudité / Nakedness

Sans bien savoir pourquoi
au bord du canal
j’ai eu l’envie de m’asseoir.
Il n’était pas midi.

Un vent léger et l’eau jouaient
au jeu des songes évanouis,
quand une mouette aussi jolie qu’un ange
tout près de moi s’est approchée.

Mais l’oiseau s’est envolé,
la brise a gagné la partie,
laissant mon âme seule
et nue.

Une passante un peu pressée
s’est retournée
et je me demande encore
ce qu’elle a vu.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Without knowing why,
I felt like sitting
on the banks of the canal.
It was almost noon.

A light wind and the water were playing
the vanishing dreams game,
when a seagull as beautiful as an angel
came up to me.

But the bird flew away,
the breeze won the game
and left my soul alone
and naked.

A woman in a bit of a hurry
looked back at me
and I still wonder
what she saw.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Au bord de l’eau © 2017 – F.G.M.

The last Hope

Taciturn poplars close ranks.
They do not fear November.

I try to fill in the blanks.
Will the dawn remember?

But the sky has cried enough,
flowers have fallen into a deep sleep.

Winter Soldiers know their stuff.
The last Hope is a secret to keep.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Peupliers au petit matin © 2017 – F.G.M.