Le passager. (2019) Painting by Papillon

Canvas | canvas Nothing is useless like art A strange path taken, We are only the passenger. It is a bit to kill yourself for nothing, And for life to be light. I die where I am a stranger. One day, you cross the imaginary border, But what are you doing sacrebleu, where are you going? Why, do you remain, eternal exile? What does life matter and what does it matter dying The spirit changes, reason escapes us All is forgiveness in our heart, I have neither country nor home, Nowhere, without the love of a mother. Put a dream there on your temple. Touch childhood and true life Turn off the lights of this world Enter the dream Like the still traveler The night will hold you so long Until the end, you won't understand. In a shroud, a canvas, we will wrap you. Your universe remains eternal, Another day will dawn Men will be beautiful In winter and their tears. Of this brainless wanderer with an unknown face and his prayers, can you still hear them? You think and you forget What will become of childhood? Little by little, silence envelops You only feel the difference Fall the last follies, desires and even despair, Time passes, the last three knocks before midnight ring at the door. It's almost time to leave. The hourglass is almost full. Here at the end of the road, on the right, It's like a cold blade on a condemned man's neck It's a bit short, not long enough to give up on oneself, to be a wise man with a child's heart. So little love, so little heart, What is the time of your departure? How many days do you have left? To man to be a man, There are not enough years You have to forgive yourself. Nothing is precarious like art, Nothing is so useless, It is to be foreign to oneself, Forgotten in its time, In the wind to be a leaf, That we burn in the spring Where we foreigner dies. kolpein | May 2019.

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PoésieÉtrangerForeigner