Ex-Libris

I wrote this little poem, originally in French, over 30 years ago, in 1976.  I still read it, now and then, when I feel down or just not quite right.  I guess it makes me believe in myself again, in my assertions, in my faith in life.

You, Reader!

You, who limp in your walk and at every stealth
Who weep your life and lest you dry your tear;
You, in the wind of fate, who succumb in fear,
Who submit to the kings and surrender to death;

You, whose laments inebriate your wounded halo,
And whose woe yearn not for the lore;
You, who implore an elusive new shore,
And who do not fight the cause of your sorrow;

You, whose heart, so sad and melancholic,
Fills your mind of dark and gloomy beliefs;
You, who are drunk of anguish and bitter griefs,
And cry in your heart that sorrow music;

You, who bend your spine and howl in your pain,
Who complain about a nought and hush for a whole;
You, who love yourself but thrive in a hole,
Who breathe odium and eschew in vain;

Yes, you who endure at the bottom of your heart
The winds of a storm that leads you to death,

Come console in my heart, and share in my wealth;
For you I saved a weal, let us not part.

Together we will walk in peace and serene;
You shall see the rose and the flight of the dove;
And, if you want, united by a common love,
Together we shall trek to heaven pristine.