It was so presumptuous of me
to think I was able to write
about the beauty of the sunset light!

Still, I wrote my lines in Moonlight.
But no one liked the paper words
I found at Night, after the sun had gone.

Silence is gifted. Silence is enough.
So tomorrow I will throw all my poems
into the great Fire of Dawn,

and when I scatter their ashes
I will tell myself that finally
it’s not so bad to be a failed poet.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Au coucher du soleil la lumière est si belle !
J’ai cru pouvoir le dire. Ce n’était pas la peine.
J’écrivais au clair de lune mais nul n’aima
les mots de papier qu’à la Nuit je trouvais.

Le silence est doué, le silence suffit.

Aussi demain je jetterai mes poèmes
au grand feu de l’aurore
et puis en dispersant leurs cendres
je me dirai que ce n’est pas si grave d’être

un poète raté.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

His name is Haroon.

He’s a fatherless orphan.
He walks with a limp.
His eyes get shiny
when he reads Rumi.

No one stood up for him
when he was mocked.
He’s left-handed!
his mother still bemoans!

One could be tempted to say
Fate is a cruel mistress.
But he was given a Gift.
The Blessing of blessings.

His strength.
His smile.
Beauty and invincibility.
The Light in darkness.

Heart Intelligence.

© Frédéric Georges Martin