Reclaim your sanity,
Reclaim yourself...
The words are spoken,
uttered in utter silence amidst the thunder,
The sky's filled with dark, black clouds,
The tress are on fire,
Hang yourself...
Do not hold on...
Why? 'Tis not worth it to live anymore,
Its not worth it to write anymore,
Don't bring disgrace,
Your mind's filled with boiling tar,
Cigarette buds on the floor,
Ashes, all around the bed
Let that bed be your funeral pyre
Do not drag this along anymore...
'My temples are sore,
Its burning in water'
Should I care?
Its you, who once trangessed so far,
Farther than your forefathers,
And maybe your children
You make me laugh,
I am impotent....
'Please stand in the line,
You'll be delivered.... '
Waiting all these times had got me maddened...
I am mad,
I make no sense
What had ever made sense, sire?
Lèon Robinson's dead,
Shot,
Dead,
In short,
Dead,
Demise, scroundels,
Murderers of art,
artful murders
You have played enough,
In vino veritas encore,
In aqua sanitas jamais
C'est la vie, mon ami artist,
No point struggling,
No use wriggling...
But how can I accept it?
How should I accept?
'Nothing's in the world is unacceptable,
Despair's worth every penny '
Leon Robinson,
He's dead, shot at the heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
is Lèon Robinson a real person..?
No, Lèon Robinson is a character from Louis Celine's Journey to the End of the Night. His life seemed to me very amusing. He serves almost no purpose throughout the novel except turning up now and then in the 'journey' of the protagonist.. I really liked him. So, the title and the poem is in reference to him. I was myself feeling like Lèon Robinson when I wrote the poem, as if I were turning up in someone else's (read the 'girl with the glass') journey without really any reason or purpose, and at the end of it, I would die.. I knew all she said was a hoax, and still loved her... This poem was an almost prophecy of things to come, that I would, too, one day be shot and will be dead...