Via itsonlythewind
Posts Tagged: poetry
14
Jun 10
Wanderlust
Restless relentlessly…
From Voltaic (Limited Edition) (2CD/2DVD) Box Set
Lyrics:
I am leaving this harbour
Giving urban a farewell
Its habitants seem to keen on God
I cannot stomach their rights and wrongs
I have lost my origin
And I don’t want to find it again
Whether sailing into nature’s laws
And be held by ocean’s paws
Wanderlust! relentlessly craving
Wanderlust! peel off the layers
Until we get to the core
Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?
Lust for comfort
Suffocates the soul
Relentless restlessness
Liberates me (sets me free)
I feel at home
Whenever the unknown surrounds me
I receive its embrace
Aboard my floating house
Wanderlust! relentlessly craving
Wanderlust! peel off the layers
Until we get to the core
Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?
Wanderlust! from island to island
Wanderlust! united in movement
Wonderful! I’m joined with you
Wanderlust!
Can you spot a pattern?
(relentlessly restless)
4
Jun 10
Arthur Rimbaud
LE DORMEUR DU VAL
C’est un trou de verdure où chante un rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D’argent; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit: c’est un petit val qui mousse les rayons.
Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort; il est étendu dans l’herbe sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.
Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme:
Nature, berce-le chaudement: il a froid.
Les parfums ne font pas frissoner sa narine;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.
—Arthur Rimbaud
THE SLEEPER IN THE VALE
It’s a hollow of verdure where the river sings
clinging crazily to the greenery of rags
of silver; where the sun of the proud mountain
reflects: it’s a small vale that burbles the rays.
A young soldier, mouth open, head nude,
his nape bathing in the cool blue cress,
sleeps; he lies in flowering under the cloud,
pale in his green bed where the light pours.
Feet in gladiolas, he sleeps. Smiling
as a sick child would smile, he takes a nap:
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.
Sweet smells don’t tickle his nostril;
he dozes in the sun, hand over his chest,
peacefully. Two red holes on his right side.
