In The Attic Poem by Tom Billsborough
In The Attic
Sous les combles fonces
J'aperçois rien
sauf par la petite lucarne
Un troupeau d'étoiles
Dispersant sans berger.
Moi, aussi, restant ici
Faisant défaut a ramasser mes rêves,
Mes paroles détachées
Comme ses étoiles
Dans la profondeur de mon âme.
skylight a flock of stars with no shepherd dispersing. Me too, being here,
failing to gather my dreams, my words detached like these stars in the depths of my soul.
well, Tom, GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER! GET OUT of the attic, with its cobwebs (real and imaginary) . buy a dream catcher; i'm sure they are on Amazon! Snap out of it old chap! ! (cont.)
my head feels like an old attic at the moment but if you are passing sling me up a hamburger. pal
So glad you translated this one, it was well worth the read.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 10:54:23 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
(cont.) when i 'read' the French [a language i do NOT 'know'] i got little out of the poem except a headache (a little one) . i DID wonder if you were talking about meat, in particular a small hamburger, in which case i considered joining you in the attic, ......but people might talk. they DID when i came out of a closet once. HEH HEH. bri ;)