Étiquette : lyrics

I need you all.

It’s a shiny July afternoon,
And I finally settle at my usual spot,
In the « Jardin de l’Abbaye »,
On that big stone ledge,
Over a generous row of flowers…

At a short distance, I witness that very simple scene
Of what I presume to be a grand-mother and her grand-son,
Gently savouring a pack of biscuits.
Surely what a tender view…
I might be mistaken though,
Could be a different type of relation ;
And the boy’s not so young,
More like a twelve-year-old.

I don’t give’em much of attention
Until I realize that I could play, or precisely couldn’t,
Both parts of their situation.
It’s not a question of gender, nor chocolate biscuits ;
This is about sharing a special link,
More than just a bloodline.

And now I’m musing on the uniqueness of their relationship,
And how important it must be, assuredly to this woman,
Even more to this boy,
That sweet looking clumsy boy…
Then I reflect on the subject of otherness, and how long,
How old for a child,
Does it take to conceive how many more humans live on earth
Than his relatives and friends.

I mean, not just on paper,
But fully realizing for the first shocking time
The multitudes of complete strangers out there,
When you only get to know so few of them.
That scaring fascinating sensation that anything is possible ;
Life is so vast,
But then you feel quite reassured
To be on summer holidays
Eating biscuits with your grandma.
_ well, perhaps his god-mother in fact.

It’s a shiny July afternoon,
Now the sunlight strikes a bit harder ;
And I am no schoolboy anyway,
Nor his grandma either,
And I’m hungry for love and otherness
Like I never was maybe…
But you don’t feed me on chocolate biscuits anymore.
I need the flesh,
I need the spirit
I need you

I need you all.

Derealization

Can’t recognise the season, the year,
Or which part of my life.
I know it’s Tuesday, I can feel it,
I know this bar, and it seems to know me.
But I’m not so sure of the timing anymore.
That must be called « derealization »,
I guess it happens :
You slip away from your own conscience
Of the past, present, and future,
Of what’s been lived,
What could’ve been,
Or what you think you should have lived.

Can’t say if we already met.
Is it just a while before, or long way after ?
Can’t say if you ever existed at all.
It turns like a post-trauma effect.
I just don’t remember when the car hit me,
Or was it a fall, a brain shake ?
Or was it just despair, in the last degree ?

Can’t recognize the season, the year,
Or which stage of my journey.
I only know the city,
And it’s neither hostile nor friendly,
It just won’t tell me if I’m alive or dead already.
And I’m not certain if any option really suits me.

Can’t recognise the season, the year,
Is it dawn or dusk, love or regret,
Longing or missing ?
Is it the mind willing to forecast,
When the soul’s waiting to forget ?

That time of the century

It’s now, it’s that time of the century.
And all you can say is you’re ready.
The moment is yours, the future is born,
And it came a long way to capture your soul.
It dangles the cure by twisting a thorn,
Not for you to obey, yet to fix on your goal.
It scares and allures, invades any shore,
And you’re left as a prey, only few steps behind,
When you’re still unsure what phase you head for.
It knows you’re enslaved, like most in your kind,
Who’ll grow insecure at a free entry door,
At the suddenly paved avenue of their times.

And the moment is pure, and the light is reborn,
As it came a long way for to summon your prime ;
When life is obscured with all you had sworn
It clears enough days to freshen your mind.
Unless you adjourn a filtering dawn,
Abide in your haze and partly go blind,
This page you will turn, or soon will be torn,
You’re either in chase or easier to bind.

Oh, the strain you endure in your quest for more…
Every page has a lure, when not fully scored.
And the mourning is rude, yet no past you adorn,
Rewinding old views of the sculpture you’re from.
How brittle and crude, it was looking forlorn ;
If you played your own muse, well, embrace your freedom.

It’s now, it’s that time of a century.
And all you can swear is « I’m ready ».

—

(Tableau : André Devambez – « La Charge »)