carlos yorbin

Rookie - 34 Points (Colombia / Medellin)

Sovereignvagabond - Poem by carlos yorbin

C'est ici que tout naît et se lève et adore en néant dans le rien et le non de la nuit.
Pierre Jean Jouve.

Solitary die,
a triumph this silence?
the time repeats its obscure hour,
under today's moon,
a word nothing sum,
every page, dying alphabets;
sleeping from dawn to dusk,
just a way to vanish,
to stay on.
II
Final afternoons,
sitting on the dirty porch of an old house,
(my last abode?)
reading a book, (thick glasses now)
no longer the dandy bum,
nor the lucid loser,
or the sad stalker.
only a solitary man survives,
vulgar, beat, a gloomy ghost,
a mute castle.
©
Solitaire dé,
un triomphe ce silence?
le temps répète son heure obscure,
sous cette lune,
un mot rien somme,
chaque page, des angoissants alphabets,
dormir de l'aube au crépuscule
juste un moyen de succomber,
de continuer.
II
Derniers après-midis,
je suis assis sur le porche sale d'une vieille
maison (ma dernière demeure?) ,
en lisant un livre,
(d'épaisses lunettes maintenant):
ne plus le dandy vagabond,
ni le lucide perdant, ni le triste harceleur,
survit à peine un homme solitaire,
vulgaire, vaincu, un lugubre fantôme,
un château muet.
©
Dado solitario,
un trionfo questo silenzio?
il tempo ripete la sua oscura ora,
sotto questa luna,
le parole nulla sommano,
ogni pagina, alfabeti agonizzanti,
dormire dall'alba al crepuscolo,
un modo per scomparire,
per persistere.
II
Ultimi pomeriggi,
seduto sul portico sporco di una vecchia casa,
(mia ultima dimora?)
leggendo un libro, (con occhiali spessi ora)
ormai non il dandy vagabondo,
né il lucido perdente, né le triste persecutore,
a malapena sopravvive un uomo solitario,
volgare, sconfitto, uno scuro fantasma,
un castello muto.
©
Solitario dado,
¿un triunfo este silencio?
el tiempo repite su arcana hora,
bajo esta luna
las palabras nada suman,
cada página, agónicos alfabetos,
dormirdel alba al crepúsculo
una manera de desaparecer,
de permanecer.
II
Ultimas tardes,
sentado en el porche sucio de una vieja casa,
(mi última morada?)
leyendo un libro (gafas gruesas ahora)
no ya el dandy vagabundo,
tampoco lucido perdedor, ni el triste acosador,
apenas sobrevive un hombre solitario,
vulgar, vencido, un sombrío fantasma,
un mudo castillo.

Topic(s) of this poem: solitude


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Poem Submitted: Monday, July 21, 2008

Poem Edited: Friday, December 22, 2017


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