The Cry of Sha-naqba-īmuru

“I shall bury your children
under the millions of obsidian slabs
strewn before my land.
And I shall build a new palace
from their bones, carve pillars
with their bleached skulls
and make tents for my people
with their outstretched skins.
I shall eat their flesh raw
and shall wring their useless necks
and shall have them suffer
hell and heaven at the hands
of my cruellest torturers
and of my most bloodthirsty hyenas.
Your children shall be slaughtered timelessly
for I want to destroy you all
and your barbarous ignorance.
It shall be thus as, and for, I have spoken.”

Morning

Morning found me sleeping like a dead man
(Dew-covered, inert-looking white body
Lying outstretched as under hemlock’s ban
– eyelashes shivering under the breeze –)
The dawning sun rising from lethe-argy
Slowly bathing every limb off its lease.

Morning found two fresh wounds on my left side
Out of which my blood trickled patiently,
As threads of mist were swamping the valeside
As ominous birds streaked the scenery,
Out of which water sprung as from a well
But sleeping was I as under a spell.

Remapping my skin blood and water were
– The breeze generously stroking my hand
With a red and yellow leaf – to suffer
Was not my appointed lot, but the end
– The real end – would be when it would stop
Seed-time is gone…Scythe! Now wail for the crop!

Morning left me sleeping like a dead man
The ground soaking up both blood and water
My ope eyes mirroring the skies of men
– My upturned fingertips seemingly set –
My hair flowing freely on my shoulder
I feel, I feel!...it is not over yet.

Sleeping

He would have to go back down, his memory was failing him: was her left arm dangling or was it resting on her hip? He wanted his present to be at the measure of what he felt for her. But his hands didn't want to reproduce what his mind and his eyes saw. He could close his eyelids and see an altogether perfect image of her sleeping the long, undisturbed sleep down below. Once he opened his eyes he could only see a piece of rough stone with no specific shape – yet.
The sharp bone was precise enough but he was scared of marring the figure once again. The first one that he had made for suns and moons he had disfigured because the bone had ripped because the hammering stone had broken. The short antler had opened a large cut on the palm of his hand. It had bled profusely. The sage had shown him to put his hand into the waves; it had stung so much he had had to fight hard against the sleepiness. Then the sage had put green leaves and yellow flowers but he wasn't sure it had any effect. If he banged too hard on the antler he could sense beatings as the ones he was hearing in his chest.
Still he had to finish the figure before her spirit flew up high where the lights spangled the dark sky. The sage had said the full moon was soon to appear. He had to hurry.
He was working cross-legged on the hot ground. Bees were buzzing from bush to bush to flowers.
She had been all to him, she had meant something he couldn't name but that he could feel, even now and its loss brought him tears. He stood up. He had to go down while there was enough light.
He bent down and passed under the big stone arch. It was dark and damp. He had been shown the intricate way by the sage. No one knew it but him and those who were building it. He didn't know why she had to be put there but the temple was the best they had built. From time to time they opened a new chamber to put more people in. There you saw the remains of people that were put there suns and moons ago. Some smelt bad and were covered in red and black. Some had no eyes and you could see through to their bones.
He wouldn't like the idea of putting red on the figure he was carving. She had given him two sons and she had also been a respected sage. She had taught him and their sons so many things that the world was different now, even more so that she was gone. He felt he had to give her something in return – the figure.
It was cold down there, despite the intense buzzing heat that was baking the ground. He shivered. He passes several chambers and then he saw her, lying in the big round cave, obviously asleep. She looked calm, just a little pale. Perhaps paler than the last time he saw her. Only the sage knew when they would wake up, when their spirits would ascend to the lights.
He put the figure next to her, he would soon be finished. He would have been much quicker had his hand been whole. In the dim light he thought he saw her stir. He touched her shoulder. She was as cold as the stone of the figure. He remembered her touch at the dark of night – the warmth, the wholeness. He stroked her mane of black hair. She was almost ready for her journey upwards, lying on the vessel just like the others when they started out to the other land across the salty water.
He tried to catch as many details as possible: the navel, the folds of her robe, the hand around the stone on which she had reclined her head for the last time, her left arm resting on her right arm.
No sounds were coming from upground. Occasionally the sound of water dripping. The stench was too much for him. The bodies, the other bodies did it. And he couldn't bear it any longer. He took the figure and left.
He blinked several times to get used to the light again. He walked a few paces and crouched under a tree. He ate one of its fruits. They were like dark drops and very sweet. He liked the tough rind and the seeds inside. The taste would last for a long time in his mouth. She had shown him that the dark drops were good. He set out again to work on the figure.

Several suns have passed and when the moon will rise her spirit will depart. Every time he has to get a detail right he closes his eyes – he doesn't want to go back down, even though he doesn't remember if her left arm is on her hip or not. He can only remember something to do with her breasts. In he end he has to make her arm rest on one of her breasts and rest a little on her other arm because the stone – the stone he has chosen so carefully – he cannot carve the arm on her hip. Now he just has to polish the stone where he finished off the arm.

The sun has plunged inside the water and the light is beginning to fade. In the sky some twinkling lights can already be seen. He cannot go down in the temple with the sage, but he isn't sure that he would have liked it. He gives the figure to the man who receives it with both hands cupped held high in front of him. His sons stand up right behind him, they have the same eyes as their mother's. He hopes she will like his work and perhaps she will take it for her journey to the lights.
At first he wanted to keep it like a memory of her, but as he was seeing it every time he blinked he decided to give it to her that had liked his figures, that had been with him many suns and moons. He felt the last figure should be hers – only he isn't sure if he had the proportions right. The making of the details has taken him a long time. Perhaps he has forgotten something as sometimes the image before his closed eyes suddenly disappeared.
He watches the sage bending down and being swallowed up by the dark mouth of the temple. The moon is up.
If the image lasts long enough, he will make another one, just to remember.

Partir, rester

Venir de loin et partir de tout
peu importe les distances
peu importe le destin
c'est partir qui compte
partir pour ne pas regretter
sa mort loin du but
loin de sa destination,
loin de soi
loin, c'est pourtant loin
et pourtant
il faut
partir
il le faut.


Rien de tel que de rester
parmi les siens
la douce chaleur du foyer
le calme des nuits.
Sentir le repos vibrer
dans la maison où rien ne manque.
Le sommeil du juste
là seul où l'on peut le trouver.


Je m'en vais. Je m'en vais.
Puisque tout abandonne
J'abandonne tout.


Se retrouver sous une tonnelle l'été.
Une orangeade, avec ou sans glaçons.
Les abeilles dans la lavande.
Un enfant sur les genoux
dessinant la corbeille de fruits
posée sur la toile cirée
où se dessinent les ronds ambrés
des mazagrans.


Partir sans mot dire.
Partir et maudire.
Envoyer au diable.
Sans se retourner.
S'ils veulent se désister,
alors je partirais.
Ne rien avoir pour n'avoir rien à perdre.
Assez de la déception.
S'il faut être seul, je le serais.
Je n'attends plus rien,
parce que oui, ma faute fut d'attendre
quelque chose,
une présence peut-être.
Un geste peut-être.
Ne manque plus qu'une personne à partir,
et je pourrai dire:
je m'en vais. Je m'en vais.
Et allez au diable.


Prendre son temps, livre devant soi,
Page à page
Ligne à ligne
Mot à mot.
Le temps, il y en a toujours.
Des livres, une éternité.


Ras-le-bol. Marre. Overdose de vie.
Plein le cul de cette mièvrerie surannée.
Je me casse.


Les gens qui partent se mentent à eux-mêmes.
Ils fuient. Alors qu'au contraire il faut rester.
Nous n'existons que dans la mesure où nous restons ensemble.
La solitude n'amène rien. Elle est stérile.
Prodrome à la mort sociale, à la décrépitude.
Rien de tel que d'avoir les siens,
que d'appartenir à quelque endroit,
à quelqu'un.


Honnêtement, quoi de plus affligeant
que ce communautarisme
qui passe les individus pour des gens,
que ces instants photographiés
répertoriés, classés comme des cartes.
Que ce vivre-ensemble qui résume tout,
la quintessence des relations humaines.


L'impossibilité de vivre loin des miens.
L'incapacité de dénouer les liens.
La volonté d'aller de l'avant avec.
L'espoir de ne pas finir seul.


C'est la recherche de l'horizon qui importe,
le trésor au pied de l'arc-en-ciel.
Les clairs de lune sur les montagnes,
les levers de soleil sur les steppes,
les orages alors qu'on traverse un bras de mer,
les ruines des anciens holocaustes,
les catafalques d'absurdes mais convaincants sacrifices.


Il n'y a que dans son sang que l'on trouve le bonheur,
dans le sien propre et celui des nôtres.
Seul le lieu de notre naissance nous promet la vérité,
seules nos racines peuvent nous sustenter.


Notre foyer nous suit comme notre ombre,
nous sommes nous-même dans notre cœur.
Si notre cœur parcourt dix mille et une lieues,
alors à cette égale distance vivra notre foyer,
vivra là tout ce dont nous avons besoin.


Mieux vaut faire le tour de soi-même que le tour du monde.


Même s'il faut revenir au point de départ, partir était vital, partir valait la peine de tout quitter.

Les gens de mer

Les gens de mer, soufflant aux quatre vents
leur corne de brume rouillée,
voient les crêtes des vagues voler vers eux
à la vitesse de vingt mètres seconde.
Aux artels des vents ils scrutent des hunes sombres,
celles qui protègent des écueils
et des naufrages par le fond.
Il n'y a pas de miracle lorsque leur œil aguerri
discerne le trait qui coulera la trirème
à la vitesse de vingt mètre seconde.
Pas non plus de miracle lorsque l'oreille
par-dessus le rugissement des bourrasques
perçoit l'écho de la corne rebondissant
sur les coins des rafales.
Tout hurle qu'il faut faire demi-tour,
qu'il faut bifurquer,
à la vitesse de vingt mètres seconde.
La silhouette de la côte pourrait bien se dessiner,
mais le roulis empêche la vision d'accrocher quelque angle.
Les gens de mer savent, parlent sans mots aucun,
disent silencieusement que la terre peut à tout instant
accueillir ou écueillir,
à la vitesse de vingt mètres seconde.
Et toujours à cette même vitesse
qui s'épèlera célérité dans quelques instants,
les gens de mer passent l'octroi
bras en avant comme en offrande,
mettant aux pieds des déferlantes une mèche de leurs cheveux,
comme pour prouver leur valeur
à la vitesse de vingt mètres seconde
parce que chaque seconde compte à présent
que tout – et rien – est contre eux.

Lindalë an i lantaner i ohtassë

Lantainë lá exë lá qualmenen,
A, yondor nerion caitainë arta i palari!
sercelya evéuië faila casta,
ara nirmë sa lá hehtuvalmë úquétina.
A, yondor tollo, nehtainë failassen,
ucúnielyë i sangar monieo,
anámbielyë falquaninë quárilya casintannar;
ve etelehtielyë oira moialellon.
A, yondor alta nóreo, yondor léra lieo,
úquén exë pollen rahta apairë,
úquén exë pollen ovanta i mácier aqua mí anta,
mal qualmë cernë nessë cuililyë.
A, yondor aranen yeryaina as i yenta yaltë loaron,
elyë harë tuller i saurë hormar,
elyë pelehtaner i tauri angë ranquion,
termanelyë erië ar caurelónar imíca únótima liyúmë.
A, yondor atario nyényë estelimmoryassë,
yondor nero quétala er orolaitaleron ar poicë selmaron,
írë hísië ar sai úfantaner queletsilya imíca cotumorilyon,
nolyanenyë sa fairië ner paityaner lungavë.
Ai, yondinya, úvalyë racinë ú noireo,
ar noirilyon úvar racinë i quettar cardalyon,
ar apairinyon nortuvar endanyassë,
ar sucuvanyë i yulmallon nucumniéo ar nyéreo.


Song for those who fell in the war

Vanquished by none other than death,
O, sons of men strewn across the plains!
your blood has served a just cause,
a noble deed that we shall not leave unspoken.
O, sons of a remote island, slain for justice,
you have conquered the throngs of darkness,
battered your sworded hands on their heads
you have saved us from eternal throes.
O, sons of a great land, sons of a free people,
None other could achieve victory,
None other could meet the slayings fully in the face,
But death reaped your young lives.
O, sons of a king weary with the yoke of years,
you alone did approach the befouled legions,
you alone did hew the forests of iron arms,
you stood alone within the multitudes.
O, sons of a father crying over his dignity,
sons of a man speaking only of values and ideals,
when mist and fire unveiled your bodies among your enemies’,
I learnt that duty and freedom had a heavy price.
O, my sons, you shall not be left without a grave,
and your graves shall not miss the words of your deeds,
and your deeds shall dwell in my heart,
and I shall drink of the cups of humbleness and sorrow.