Sometimes I wonder what’s worse:
the lure of false modesty,
which turns the mediocre into something terse,
when it’s not deemed of any quality,
by friendship, love, or pity’s sway,
by every act devoid of harm’s way.

What of the weight of silence then,
that born of an exceptional act,
one leaving only endless chatter,
sprung from bitterness deep inside,
finding in gossip alone a bitter balm,
a comfort tinged with aching calm.

Fuck, I’m fat.
So why don’t you do it?
Get myself butchered?
Because I’m not fat enough.

Just stuff yourself
for a month,
shove in all the junk
like a fakir swallowing swords.

You’re right.
And it’s covered anyway.
I’d say I’m nearing
morbid obesity.
No heavy effort, please.
Life’s already hard enough.
Eat less and work out?
I’d like to, but I got no choice.

Then I’ll flood every feed:
“Look at this new body, so neat!”
And then you’ll sink into depression,
‘cause when you overeat,
it makes me sick enough to puke.

I mean, I’m having a “dumping.”
You don’t realize
how damn hard it is.

Cut a prisoner’s leg:
it will never stop itching.
Shout to everyone that you’ve changed.
Maybe you’ll even manage
to convince yourself.

Written in prose,
with verses that turned out morose.
And why not to write
what others long to recite?
To trade authenticity
for blooming commerciality?

I have written novels à l’eau de rose,
but the flower of my inspiration only rose to swiftly wilt.
Not to criticise those who are drawn to its remain,
I just wonder why I constantly need to excuse and explain.
For the worst is that indeed afterall,
These apologies are nothing but emptiness
A repleted plea of protocol and customs
where more has no other meaning than less

Dear all,

For today’s analysis, I invite you to revisit this week’s poem:

You’ve probably guessed it by now—this text sheds light on a plant that needs no introduction : the sunflower…

Alright—fair enough. It’s not the sunflower.

A Touch of Storytelling

Today, I wanted to share my own empirical, deeply personal experience with weed. Through this lens, I aimed to highlight a side of THC consumption that is far less often discussed.

Even before talking about effects, there has always been something about this plant that fascinated me: its aesthetics and its unmistakable scent. To me, it always carried a certain allure—like a succubus mistress: beautiful, seductive, enticing… but not necessarily benevolent.

That’s where the poem opens: an entry through beauty, quickly caught up by the reality it generated in my own life.

About twenty years ago, as a teenager, I was fascinated by this plant. Forbidden, yet omnipresent, cannabis already had its own iconography: a symbol of pop culture, coolness, lightness, and even a form of soft rebellion against authority.

And above all, it carried this persistent reputation of being a drug… without really being one.

That is precisely the point I wanted to linger on, because this sugar-coated image often conceals a far less pleasant reality for those who—like me—used it, or still use it, excessively.

When I started smoking, it was occasional, with friends, in small amounts. I loved the sensation it gave me: a sense of detachment, a distancing from reality, as if a thin veil had been draped over the world.

To me, weed was the equivalent of a large, warm blanket on a winter evening—enveloping, reassuring, comfortable.

But fairly quickly, the experience no longer satisfied me within a social context. Already inclined toward solitude, I began consuming alone: making music, watching films, getting high.

Over time, I became a heavy user—to say the least. My daily life gradually organized itself around weed. It had become a kind of fuel, something I could never afford to run out of.

On top of that came more insidious effects: the constant need to plan ahead to keep a supply, to find a dealer (since it wasn’t—and still isn’t—legal where I come from), to have the necessary funds, and everything that entails mentally.

That’s the forgotten reality I wanted to bring to light.

Because while recreational use may seem acceptable, almost harmless, we too often forget that cannabis remains a drug—and that it can lead to genuine addiction.

Smoking had become a refuge, an escape… and paradoxically, a mental prison. Dreams had faded away, I grew increasingly isolated, my mood could swing dramatically in the face of problematic or conflictual situations. Not to mention my first thought every morning: getting high as quickly as possible, by relighting the survivor from the night before, still sitting in the ashtray beside my bed.

Make no mistake: I wasn’t living like a recluse. I had friends, a stable job, a social life. But joints were always there, lingering in the background.

I went through several periods of abstinence—one of them lasting several years. Yet even during those fasting periods, this mistress would continue to make herself known. Like a former lover you’ve left, whose absence still calls out to you—sometimes insistently.

Whenever I stop after a few days of smoking, I always tell myself that this time, it’s over.

Then the idea returns, little by little—sometimes turning into obsession. And even if I often manage to stay in control—control addict that I am—I have to admit that flirting with this former mistress remains tempting… sometimes even irresistible.

And when I start smoking again, between two periods of abstinence, the effects are immediate: that urge to “deforest” quickly, accompanied by depressive episodes, loss of confidence, mental confusion, memory lapses…

What About You?

Have you ever experienced an ambivalent relationship with a habit, a substance, or even an idea—something both comforting and limiting?

How did you learn to live with it… or to let it go?

Peace & Bliss
Aaron

Of all the virtues it bestows,
the one I choose drifts off in smoke,
a selection driven by the illusion of serenity,
my remedy when thinking becomes too much.

One could think I’d turn it into praise,
a draining mistress replacing my dreams,
with, upon waking, a single desire left:
to get wrecked, without the hint of a truce.

And then, when the vessel, however large it was,
equals nothing but the abundance of emptiness,
I’m left facing the dilemma:
restock, at the expense of thoughts returning.

On TV, it’s amusing to watch the clueless float,
wondering if they even know what it is.
Me, my leaning is to deforest,
until my eyes shut down without a blink.

Every time, I tell myself I’ll stop,
then after a week, I feel the itch crawl back.
I resist, then tell myself it’s not that bad,
and so I call my ever-present supplier.

When it’s gone, I think of what it was:
illusory comfort, clashing with harsh truth.
It occupies every moment of my thoughts.
I love it as much as I hate it,
my sweet addiction.

Those ones are particularly harmful
They don’t show up with a flashy name, a sign,
A little badge stitched on their collar.
They are the defenders of their own righteousness,
They rally, ever so subtly,
Before letting loose
These tiny frustrated beings
Whose only equal is diversity.

How I love to watch them contradict themselves.
They talk, they talk…
Just stay silent:
They do all the work themselves.
The more selective they are,
The more they trip
Over the hole they dug themselves.

Has anyone ever awakened
Consciousness by condemning what another was doing?
For me, there’s nothing worse
Than self-proclaimed messiahs.

Amidst the shadows, everything aligns with care:
Pins pulled from costumes, here and there.
Makeup artists wave their brushes light,
Mystical powders, soft and bright.
Prompters hiding under trapdoors tight,
On guard for surprises that might take flight.
Stagehands swap the scenes in play,
As curtains sweep the light away,
The hidden world that few perceive,
Exists for what the stage will weave.

Actors, extras, all in line,
Under the leader’s guiding sign.
Each one in their own assigned caste,
A functional trinity made to last.
They know their lines, they know their part,
With one vocation close to heart:
To let the spectacle
Live and gleam.

Another pointless evening.
Dinner starts too early,
And ends too late,
Like every year.
I wasn’t in the mood.
Pretend,
Fake laughs,
Play the fool.
“Go ahead, show off, Fido.”
A prostitute on demand,
Dressed as a clown.
Afterward,
I’m not the last one to show up
At this crazy fair.
What I prefer
Is when it hits out of nowhere.
A call at 2 a.m.,
A text that spirals,
Something unexpected.
Maybe I’m just lost.

A little moment of shared cynicism,
It passes the time.
And then,
“Kisses, see you next year!”
Dirty laughs,
Elbow nudges,
And we part with promises.
We’ll do this again, right?
While deep down, all year long,
We hide behind fake smiles,
Never saying what we should really say.

The one—full of fragrance, of elegance,
He sometimes weeps, but always with refinement’s presence,
A complexity not always easy to trace,
With manners polished, perhaps too tightly laced.
The other is quite the reverse.
He yells, he howls aloud
What the first keeps quiet, hidden in his shroud,
Abrasive, unfiltered,
A nightmare for the well-mannered.
They coexist, yet never collide,
Hand in hand,
As if they worked side by side
To serve a single strand.
Ah, how dear you are to me,
My faithful companions stripped of fleshly identity,
In this fragile balance within my mind,
Where one ascends and one bows in kind,
Sometimes even at goodness’ expense,
Letting some lurking evil take precedence,
Feasting in the shadow of pain,
While whispers fade in a white-noise rain.
Gestures with obscene intent,
Chasing off the mildest patron ever sent.

A chosen din,
Ecstatic resonance,
A rotten apple dropping in
Under sound’s noble governance.
I can no longer tell one from the other,
For they love to disguise, to seep and smother
My daily life with soiled debris—
A world I take pleasure in scorning, endlessly.
I wonder—are they or am I
Pulling the strings? Playing judge or ally?

Dear readers,

As mentioned last week, I would like to not only share my poems with you, but also provide more elements of analysis, storytelling the creative process behind each piece.

If you missed the poem, you can read it again here: Astra

Astra is an older poem, composed at the beginning of 2023.
At that time, I was still searching for the tone that would define my style. Although I don’t particularly like to confine myself to a category or label, I must admit that my tendency has evolved toward a more striking style, raw and direct, adopting a freer approach.

But let’s focus on this particular piece: as you’ve probably guessed, the star of this poem is the sun.
The inspiration came to me on an unusually warm winter day. As I was tapping on my keyboard, I noticed how bright the light was, even though these months were usually quite gray.
This vision brought a smile to my face, which pushed me to write the first lines. Being passionate about mythology (Greek, in this case), I made a small nod to the realm of the gods, as well as Helios and his chariot. This mythological element becomes important in the last stanza of the poem.

Although the first two stanzas might seem like an ode, certain elements already point to the real theme behind the text: climate change.

“Before the curse”
“While fire shrouds the greed in which we’re raised”

Once again, the day was unusually warm for this time of year, and I couldn’t help but think back to certain moments in my childhood, when snow used to cover the ground at this season.

The following stanzas highlight human involvement in global warming. Everyone knows what is happening, yet we can only stand in awe at the desolate spectacle: a vision of the Earth gradually dying, illustrated by the “black smoke in flight” rising from “the burning castle.”

The final stanza is an invitation to reflect on our position regarding creation and, inevitably, our conception of deity or deities.
Here, we see a duality: on one hand, the mythological aspect; on the other, a form of paradigm shift.

Mythology often serves to provide explanations through the intervention of divine will. In this case, humans are aware of the destruction of their environment because they are the driving force behind it. This stanza highlights a form of denial of the divine (“rebellion of mankind against its sires”), as humans are conscious that they can be responsible for their own eradication and knowingly choose to act against their creator. They refuse to refer to one or more gods to justify their existence, entering a new era in which humanity deliberately defies its creators.

Two subtleties to note before your comments:

• A nod to Tolkien in the phrase “The Valar’s lamps at night”, referencing a Silmarillion episode

• The phrase “black smoke in flight”, just before the castle allegory, emphasizes one of the main causes of global warming: toxic industrial smoke.

And you—what feelings or thoughts did this poem evoke for you? Which images or ideas stood out, and how do you interpret the story behind “Astra”?

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron

Writing without a thought,
a gentle breath is caught,
whispers drift through trees,
poems unseen with ease,
an indivisible shield that frees.

Upon the river’s side,
pumice stone in hand,
a distant mark to guide,
a gesture that will stand.

And the faintest ripple rings through a far-off domain,
a constellation of boundless chance.
It takes but a single throw,
for all to align,
for all to align at last.

Here’s The Original Version In French

Effet papillon

Écrire sans réfléchir,
un souffle paisible,
au vent murmure,
poésie invisible,
indivisible armure.

En bord de rive,
pierre ponce en main,
atteindre une cible
qui porte au loin.

Et le moindre remous fait écho dans un paysage lointain,
une constellation d’infimes probabilités.
Il ne suffit que d’un lancé,
pour que tout s’aligne,
pour que tout s’aligne enfin.

💬 And you, do you believe that small gestures can really change the course of things?

Share your thoughts in the comments ✨

Peace & Bliss,

Aaron.

— So, tell me a bit about yourself?

If I gave you the real version,
I’d say I don’t have much choice left.
Can’t keep opening the fridge
just to find more excuses in there.

So yeah, whenever something looks like it might stick, I call.
Tsss… what a strategy.
The breeding ground of a perfect paradox,
when you already know who’s the demand
and who’s the supply.

Let’s not lie to ourselves —
your hunter’s instinct already smelled
how rotten the meat was.

The sixth sense, or something in the eyes.
The irony of the grasshopper,
who got high all summer long,
mocking the working ant
who kept saving for later.

That idiot — living the opposite way.
And what did she tell me? To go dance?
I pretended not to get it.
Then she told me to go fuck myself.

So here I am. In front of you.
And truth be told, that suits you just fine,
’cause only the desperate ones
agree to sell themselves cheap.

And me? I’ll do the job.
Tell myself: it’s temporary,
I’ll find something better later.
As if I had any other choice…

Before I find myself twenty years down the road,
dragging my face to work,
even with a nasty cold.

A kid or two hanging off my arms —
same dad, yeah… I think.
Another addiction clinging to my fingers.

They don’t tell you that,
back in school —
the real job waiting after you leave:
to keep the cliché alive,
pretend instead of exist.

And there you have it —
the dark magic of the gears,
always pushing things to later,
when we were already running late to begin with.

It just wants to run away,
for something even worse.
Doesn’t think, but still wants to clear its head.

I could tell you I’m authentic
pretending I’m not some cheap whore —
but let’s be real:
I keep wondering what my integrity sells for.

Then I realize
it doesn’t take much for me
to put on the lipstick.

That after washing my hands,
I can’t wait to shove them back in the shit —
’cause the dirt never fades away
from hands already too stained.

Here’s The Original Version in French

Entretien d’embuche

— Et si vous me parliez un peu de vous ?

Si je vous donnais la version véritable,
j’vous dirais que j’ai maintenant plus l’choix.
J’peux plus continuer d’ouvrir le frigo
pour n’y trouver que des prétextes.

Alors, dès qu’un truc semble coller, j’appelle.
Tsss… quelle stratégie.
Le terreau du parfait paradoxe,
quand on sait bien qui distingue la demande de l’offre.

Puis on va pas se mentir :
votre instinct de chasseur a déjà bien flairé
à quel point la viande était déjà faisandée.

Le sixième sens, ou un truc dans le regard.
L’ironie de la cigale,
quand elle s’est défoncée tout l’été
à moquer la travailleuse fourmi
qui n’a cessé de mettre de côté.

Cette conne, qui vit dans la démarche opposée.
Et elle m’a dit quoi ? D’aller danser ?
J’ai fait semblant de pas comprendre.
Puis elle m’a dit d’aller me faire mettre.

Donc, je suis là. Devant vous.

Vous, ça vous arrange dans le fond,
parce qu’y a que les désespérés
enclins à jouer la pute au rabais.

Et puis moi, je ferai le taf.
Je me dirai : c’est provisoire,
j’trouverai quelque chose de mieux plus tard.
Comme si j’avais d’autre choix…

Avant de m’y retrouver encore vingt ans après,
à traîner ma gueule de force,
même quand j’ai une sale crève.

Un gosse ou deux en plus sous les bras —
tous du même papa… ouais, enfin j’crois.
Une addiction en plus du bout des doigts.

On nous en parle pas, ça, derrière les bancs d’école :
du vrai boulot qui nous attend après la sortie,
celui de perpétuer le cliché.
À juste prétendre sans exister.

Et voilà : la noire magie des engrenages,
à sans cesse remettre à plus tard,
alors qu’on est pas en avance, de base.

Ça veut juste s’enfuir, pour quelque chose même d’encore pire.
Ça réfléchit pas, mais ça veut quand même se vider l’esprit.

Moi, j’pourrais vous dire que je suis un gars authentique,
à faire croire que je suis pas une catin, mais on va pas se mentir :
j’me demande à quelle hauteur mon intégrité se monnaie.

Puis j’réalise qu’il ne m’en faut pas beaucoup
pour sortir le rouge à lèvres.
Qu’après être passé au robinet,
je m’empresse de refoutre les mains dans la merde—
parce que la crasse ne s’efface plus
de mes mains déjà trop salies.

Peace & Bliss

Aaron.

Scrolling.
A pile of posts.
Just one more,
before the next one,
in ten minutes,
or so.

Curiosity,
often misplaced.
Cute is my sin.
A dystopian reality.

Silence has never been so loud:
notifications
crackling through the night,
wandering eyes
on cracked screens,
while we wait
for something or someone.
If not even,
a Divine hand,
facing the insane spirit.

Days fade in loops,
yet the hours,
they stretch,
like shadows against the light.

And yet,
amidst the noise,
a breath.
A glow.
A pause.

Tell me,
do you see it too?

Here’s The Original Version In French

Hyperconnecté

Je scrolle
Un amas de publications
Encore une dernière,
Avant la prochaine
Dans 10minutes
Environ

Curiosité,
Souvent mal placée
Mignon est mon péché
Dystopique réalité

Le silence n’a jamais été aussi bruyant :
des notifications
qui crépitent dans la nuit,
des regards fuyants
sur des écrans fissurés,
pendant qu’on attend
quelque chose ou quelqu’un
Si pas même,
L’intervention d’un esprit divin,
En réponse aux insanités,
celles qui nous sont propres.

Les jours s’effacent en boucle,
mais les heures, elles,
s’étirent,
comme des ombres à contre-jour.

Et pourtant,
au milieu du bruit,
une respiration.
Une lueur.
Une pause.

Dis-moi,
tu la vois aussi ?

Peace & Bliss

Aaron.

At break of day I see her — she obsesses me,
Barely awake, I bow and yield to that plea.
I watch her burn, and ask myself with rue:
when will I crack and light another too?

Sometimes I fight… this time I swear it’s done.
Then — maybe once more — I’ll let myself be won?
After all, we have but one life to live:
why always deny, refuse what pleasures give?

It’s strange to dive, with open eyes, aware,
into that need so bold, so impertinent, so rare.
But tomorrow’s promise stands resolved, relayed:
goodbye, my cruel beloved — I’ll turn away.

Here’s The Original Version In French

Tube

Dès le matin, je la vois qui m’obsède.
À peine réveillé, à mon envie je cède.
Je la vois se consumer, et me demande :
quand vais-je me craquer la suivante ?

Parfois je résiste... Cette fois-ci, c’est fini.
Enfin... peut-être une dernière fois y succomber ?
Après tout, on n’a qu’une seule vie :
pourquoi toujours, sans cesse, se frustrer ?

C’est curieux, de plonger consciemment
dans ce besoin si impertinent.
Mais demain, c’est bien décidé :
adieu, ma cruelle bien-aimée.

Provocative stare,
A shrug —
The kind that speaks without a word.
Eyes wide with candor,
Effortless allure,
Driving the untrained mind absurd.

A spring day wrapped in eternity,
The kind that gives you wings —
Where the unreal meets serenity.
Sunlight kisses with no intent,
A mere brush, almost absent,
Romantic air,
In a riverside town, unaware.

Alleyways bursting in brass-band delight,
The stroll winding down with fading light.
Harbor in view, twilight supreme,
Birdsong chirping like a postcard dream.

Then — a shift in the scene, deep into night,
A secret kiss in a backstreet’s bite.
Clothes fall,
Mercury climbs,
Breathless, soft, and shy.

And then...
Silence.
Heavy.
Trotting on a tightrope,
Chasing balance into the void

What just happened?
I walk by, I glance —
No words.
Nothing.

“Is something wrong?
“Listen, about last night… I’m not sure.
It’s not you... It’s me.”

That’s when I understood:
In one message,
I burned my final life.

...

Flirt in bold display,
Who thinks of losing when they’re winning the play?
Misunderstanding,
Questions left to rot,
No answers —
A gaping frustration
That screams without a sound.

Serena

Regard provocateur,
Un haussement d’épaule
De ceux qui parlent sans dire un mot.
Yeux emplis de candeur,
Séduction désintéressée,
À rendre fou les non-initiés.

Une journée de printemps à l’allure éternelle,
De celle qui y fait pousser des ailes,
Quand se juxtapose à l’irréel.
L’anodinité des caresses du soleil,
D’un effleurement ou presque,
Au caractère romanesque
D’une ville bordée d’un fleuve,
Des ruelles animées en fanfare,
Avant que se termine la ballade.
Vue sur le port, crépuscule idéal,
D’oisillons gazouillant sur fond de carte postale.
En un instant, un autre décor, tard le soir,
Des embrassades dans une impasse,
Des vêtements qui tombent,
Quelques degrés en plus dans le mercure.

Et puis,
Le silence,
Pesant,
Il tire sur le fil.
Que s’est-il passé ?
Je passe, je regarde,
Pas un mot,
Rien.

« Y a-t-il quelque chose qui ne va pas ? »
« Écoute, pour hier, je ne sais pas.
C’est pas toi… C’est moi. »

C’est après que j’ai compris,
Qu’en un message, j’ai cramé ma dernière vie.
…
Flirt à l’allure ostentatoire,
Qui pense à la défaite, quand se profile la victoire.
Incompréhension,
Questionnements,
Pas de réponse,
Frustration béante,
Qui hurle en silence.

💬 And you — what does this poem awaken in you?

Share your reflections, stories, or interpretations —

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron

A drought of inspiration, silence reigning still,
Notes escape the staff, eluding every will.
After days with no respite, no end, no reprieve,
I lie, weary, adrift within a dream I can't conceive...

Before me stands a mansion, eerie and austere,
Its threshold open — I approach with humble air.
The master of the place, reading all my daring,
Unleashed at once a wave of awe beyond comparing.

He led me to the grandest hall without a sound,
Where noble instruments in beauty did abound —
Each crafted with a grace, arranged in subtle lines,
Their luthier's finesse echoing like signs.

A glance from him — my host — invited me to play,
To follow his own rhythm, let music guide the way.
But then, a burst of brilliance struck my soul,
As if the bow itself had shattered all control.

Sublime the notes he summoned, burning, raw —
Too vast to mimic. I stood frozen, struck with awe.
No choice but to abstain — his skill too high,
His frenzy danced where human hands defy.

His tempo roared, a storm that bent all time,
The strings, worn thin, shaped chaos into rhyme.
And when he stopped, he called it “barely fair,”
While I, still stunned, could only marvel there.

Never, I think, had I heard such splendor,
I knelt in reverence, overcome with wonder.
He saw the secret rising in my chest —
To be the scribe of such divine unrest.

He grinned, and held his bow toward me — a dare.
"Take my place," his eyes declared.
On one sole term:
That I surrender to a pact, sworn firm.
He offered me the bow — horsehair tight and true —
And as he snapped his fingers, the dream withdrew.

I woke from that deep and sacred trance,
My hand still aching for a second chance.
Desperate to transcribe what he had played,
A melody lost — and I dismayed.

Though fame would crown the works that followed near,
I’d lost the taste of days sincere.
Once my lips had sipped that sacred wine,
Desire dimmed like flame declined.

From the land of sleep, I chase him still —
That sound, that force, that otherworldly thrill.
Even now, the moment haunts me so...
— Was he the Devil? I’d only half believe it so.

Here’s The Original Version In French

Le songe de Tartini

Absence d’inspiration, d’un silence marqué.
À saisir ces notes qui s’échappent de la portée,
Après des jours sans répit, sans trêve,
Gisant, las, perdu au milieu d’un rêve…

Une étrange demeure se dresse devant moi,
Invité à fouler le parvis, d’un geste humble de politesse.
Le maître des lieux, devinant toute ma hardiesse,
Fit naître aussitôt l’ampleur de mon émoi.

Dans la plus belle pièce, arrivé sans un bruit,
Trônent avec élégance
Des instruments de noble manufacture,
Agencés avec finesse et harmonie.
L’hôte m’invita, d’un regard, à suivre la cadence
Depuis son violon à la gracieuse tessiture.

Mais soudain, comme frappé d’une fulgurance,
Sublimé par les notes qu’il distillait,
Impossible de suivre — je restai figé.
Je n’eus guère d’autre choix que l’abstinence.

À la virtuosité frénétique s’ajoutait
Un rythme effréné, constamment grondissant,
Provoquant l’illusion que l’espace-temps
Était muable par l’attaque élimée de l’archet.

Il s’arrêta net, qualifiant sa prestation de médiocre,
Moi, ne réalisant pas totalement ce qui parvint à mes oreilles,
Jamais, je crois, n'avais-je entendu pareille merveille !
Songeai-je brièvement, avant de plier un genou en guise d’éloge

Il lut en moi mon désir le plus secret :
Être le scribe d’une telle vénusté.
Il me tendit la main, d’un sourire espiègle,
M’invitant, dès lors, à prendre sa relève.

À la condition unique,
Me résigner à un pacte, en guise de bonne foi,
Et d’un geste, il me confia l’archet au crin tendu.

Je me réveillai du fond de ma profonde léthargie,
Juste après qu’il eut claqué des doigts —
Je n’avais qu’une hâte : au plus vite retranscrire
Cette mélodie interrompue, à mon grand désarroi.

Mais lorsque je me remis à écrire,
Bien que mes œuvres, de succès, furent couronnées,
J’avais perdu la saveur des jours ordinaires.
Après avoir, du bout de mes lèvres,

Goûté à la magnificence d’un nectar sacré,
À présent mon désir est à l’image d’une flamme déjà consumée,
Quand, depuis le royaume de Morphée, je n’ai de cesse que de le poursuivre…

Encore aujourd’hui, j’ai en tête cet instant mystique.
Ce qui s’est passé dépasse l’essence même de la musique.
— Qui était cette incarnation étrange ? me dis-je, la bouche béé…
S’il s’agissait du diable, je ne l’aurais cru qu’à demi-mot.

💬 And you — what does this poem awaken in you?

A vision? A sound? A haunting echo from your own dreams?
Feel free to share your thoughts, your silence, your own metaphysical digressions.

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron

In a castle, secret in its grace,
Beyond the door — a shadowed place —
Figures shift in fluid guise,
Masked strangers, cloaked in silent lies.

Gloved hands adorned with ivy vine,
Distilled long past in sacred wine.
Beneath a soft and amber glow,
Eyes peer through a spyglass slow.

Through that lens, a world revealed,
Where hollow voids are gently sealed.
From one orifice to the next,
A gaze extends — the body texts.

Nets and lace, a living frame,
Offered bare and void of shame.
A finger slides, then dares to stray,
On nylon paths that lead away.

This dihedral stage brings praise,
Of sultry nights and silk-draped days.
Near the staircase, shadows cry,
Masked hordes with whispers, low and sly.

The ripened fruit of crude desire,
Exhales its sap, a molten fire.
At hallway’s end, in backroom gloom,
An unknown woman shares her room.

Legs crossed in a silent cue,
She speaks in touch, not words we knew.
In the hush, faint whispers bloom,
Till joy exhausts a final plume.

Here’s The Original Version In French

Château des délices

Dans un château à l’adresse bien gardée,
passée la porte — de tous côtés —
des silhouettes mouvantes,
des inconnus masqués,
de mains gantées, ornées de feuilles de vigne
déjà longtemps distillées.

Sous la lumière tamisée,
des regards perdus au fond d’un judas.
À travers lui, une dimension apparaît :
l’ironique vacuité comblée,
d’un orifice à un autre.
Un regard tend la main.
Résille et dentelles,
un tableau vivant, offert sans pudeur.
Le doigt hésite, glisse,
Une caresse sur le nylon, un effleure
cède sans résister.
Ce spectacle dièdre allonge la gloire.
Nuit chaude, matinée tiède,
s’étoffent dans une draperie de soie.

Près du grand escalier,
une horde de masques
hurle des murmures,
à la fois doux et provocants.
Le fruit mûr de la brute tentation,
dont la sève compacte s’exhale depuis l’extase.

Au fond d’un couloir,
dans une arrière-salle oubliée,
une inconnue, jambes croisées,
offre une invitation muette.
Les mots s’évanouissent au profit du langage corporel.
Dans la pénombre,
de pâles palabres brisent le silence,
avant que ne s’épuise un râle discret,
au paroxysme de la joie.

And you — what does this poem awaken in you?

I’d love to read your thoughts, interpretations, or simply the silence it leaves behind.

Peace & Bliss,
Aaron.