20121210

Walter Ruhlmann


To Walk

To walk in the rotting dead leaves and to stare at the horizon again. To think about you, passionately, for no reasons.

To haunt the world, yet another discovery, unknowingly. All the others walk towards their tomb. You, alone, keep straight, standing and proud like those poplar trees already praised.

To uncover our skins covered then by the night frost. Our eyes directed toward the moonless sky from which the absent stars poured the expected, naked heat.

To write weak words just because you should hurt me.

To be unlike before we met that is not to be afraid of everything, not to be that ghost any more. That vague, venal vampire watching over his invisible seat from which he basely vaunted evil. Today he billows around our desires.

To be crowded over by the oceans flooding my brain bogged down in the vicissitude of the memories to curse.

To be blessed by your shadow, your voice, I wish I did not speak ill any more. On the moon, I discovered life, I felt naked and fled from there. You came down from the spheres where the ethers do not smell the same, so you were my brother.

How not to fall into melancholy? You are always asking me about him. This angel is far away from our heaven.

To discover your eyes, still so blue: the night has not undone them yet.

To discover your mouth after you felt the subtle caress and many other desires from mine.

To want you to be big and brave, to want you neither to get bored nor to break down, just to forget the vivid shade of both my eyes. The red coats have come back down to hell to mercy our fevers.

To lend you a million lighters to illuminate your life if you lost me. Though I cannot come to think of it; besides, what a weird idea! If we had not met, what would have become of us? Would the chestnut leaves have felt more at ease?

To need no more fresh air, freedom. To have you and hate what would set us apart. United in this season which moist fragrance fills up my nostrils, we celebrate the follies of our beds and the fleeting shadows of our discoveries allowing the light of our lamps to invade us uninterruptedly.
(Translated from the original French by the author)



Walter Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits mgversion2>datura and runs mgv2>publishing. Walter is the author of several poetry chapbooks and e-books in French and English and has published poems and fiction in various printed and electronic publications world wide. Nominated for Pushcart Prize once.
His blog http://thenightorchid.blogspot.fr
 
 
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