Vilvalex Calice

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The Black Bird with Golden Wings

With gold trimmed gossamer wings,
the black bird cannot fly, yet sings
to the rhythm of Lucifer’s violin,
a song that tells of his gravest sin.
The red robin listens all ears,
to a tale that moves him to tears:
Once upon a time under Haitian sky
all birds were free to fly and die.
They glide above the tall palm trees
to see beyond the distant seas.
Upon the trees from where they perch,
there were plenty of fruits to fetch.
“Indeed! I can fly high and soar”
said this black bird longing for more,
the magistrate and sole magnate.
“Perhaps I could, with gold, ornate
every feather of my plumage,
just to improve my good image.”
From envious stares, he understood
changes he made were very good.
He dreamt of ways to sate his greed.
“what can I get to meet my need?”
He built himself a silver nest,
With island’s best he fills his chest.

Perfect diamonds studded his beak,
he wants to be handsome and chic.
In his presence all birds shudder,
never someone wills such Power.
Trying to fly he did notice,
dismissed the thought as a caprice,
he couldn’t quite lift off the ground,
yet, such trouble worth not a frown.
He never had so many friends,
all predisposed to do errands,
on their faces sadness belies,
the joy death brings to paradise.

Each time he flies, each time he falls
now in the dirt he ramps, he crawls.
His silver nest is too heavy
to stay atop the strongest tree.
His breath races to catch his heart
and finally it fails to start.
We do not know to cry or laugh,
on his tomb reads this epitaph:
“Here lays the bird with golden wings
who left behind all precious things.
Right at the gate of burning Hell,
tries to bribe angel Gabriel.”

La Tyrannie du Temps

Je cache mes beaux souvenirs
dans le silence du vent,
a l'abri du temps,
qui fait la sourde oreille
à mon âme angoissée.
Le temps filoute l’existence,
par des minutes sournoises
et des heures de malheur,
et vole au grand jour nos rêves grisonnants,
qu’il affiche sur nos tempes
et laisse le bruit de ses pas sur la peau.
La vie s'achève,
tout bêtement comme une chève,
au milieu des rêves vierges,
désuets ou inachevés.
Mais, souvent on oublie
que l'avenir n'a pas de souvenir,
parce qu'il est toujours à venir,
et n'arrive jamais à l'heure
pour épargner le cœur,
les ravages du temps.