carlos yorbin

Rookie - 34 Points (Colombia / Medellin)

Hôte Du Matin - Poem by carlos yorbin

HÔTE DU MATIN
Souvent je me recueille dans ma voix tourmenté et inquiet, voilà ce qu'il me reste,
et tout ce ciel qui chaque matin me recommence d'un coup sec pour mieux m'achever.
Louise Warren


A ruinous night,
a hellish farce becomes the dawn,
you repeat the diurnal grimaces,
the painful awakening,
tomb and hazard,
details: 7th floor……an empty studio,
on the carpet the last words expire,
down there…the traffic lights flash in vain,
prelude of another day,
and not heaven ties this distress,
then, escape is the only way,
be a silent witness without faith,
go across the night,
and devour each street,
without pride, without joy,
almost innocent in my blazer,
neat and shaved,
until everything fails.
©
La nuit néfaste,
une farce infernale devient cette aube,
on répète les diurnes grimaces,
le pénible réveil,
fosse et hasard,
détails: 7e étage …..la pièce vide,
sur le tapis les derniers mots expirent,
là-bas …les sémaphores clignent en vain,
prélude d'un autre jour,
et aucun ciel ne lie cette agonie,
reste alors la fuite,
être un muet témoin sans guide,
traverser la nuit,
dévorer chaque rue
sans fierté, sans joie,
presque innocent dans ma veste,
propre et rasée,
en attendant l'échec.



©
La brutta notte,
una farsa infernale diventa l'alba,
ripetere le diurne smorfie,
il brusco risveglio,
fossa ed azzardo,
dettagli: settimo piano......il salotto vuoto,
sul tappeto le ultime parole spirano,
laggiù i semafori balenano invano,
preludo di un altro giorno,
e nessun cielo lega questa agonia,
rimane dunque la fuga,
essere un muto testimone senza guida,
attraversare la notte,
divorare ogni strada,
senza orgoglio,
senza gioia,
quasi innocente nella
mia giacca,
pulito e rasato,
fino al finale disastro.
©
Noche nefasta
una farsa infernal deviene el amanecer,
repites las diurnas muecas,
el penoso despertar,
fosa y azar.
Detalles: 7 º piso…….el salón vacío,
sobre la alfombra las últimas palabras expiran,
allá abajo…. los semáforos titilan en vano,
preludio de otro día,
y ningún cielo lía esta agonía, queda entonces la huida,
mudo testigo sin guía,
atravesar la noche, devorar cada calle,
sin orgullo, sin alegría
casi inocente dentro del blazer,
limpio y afeitado,
esperando el colapso.

Topic(s) of this poem: solitude


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Poem Submitted: Monday, June 16, 2008

Poem Edited: Wednesday, June 21, 2017


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