For a few songs, 2025

I.

Alone walking in that street, no

Someone else but just one, woman and I

This, writed because a song has

To be sung (all very quickly

Each word then searching for a melody

Can it fail of course) what will happen

Then of it who knows ? The words

No importance only the melody

And repeat it in the night walking

 

II.

Just a few words and it can begin

Two chords or perhaps more

Nobody here counts if there’s nobody

It could be the morning of a life decline

In a forest the wildlife disappeared

Because of fear and fires a last could

Be seen but lost and hurt not knowing

Where to go (if someone saves it the

World’s life would be saved for a few

Days or hours) then it’s fire but only of

That song where letters are flames,

Flames letters the order of it unknown

 

III.

Here something that suddenly

Comes but how, something that

Could be sung not however a song

(Or so special), song about a song of

Someone that stumbled for love and died

Leaving a letter, white page with

Only a word supposed to be « live » and

« Live as long as you can », but the letter

Isn’t addressed as dream letters

The scripture don’t change nothing

Or disintegrates (here the absence of

any refrain but sung anyway)

 

IV.

A door opens on a question, a shadow

Asks to another shadow : Are you keen

On melodies ? One would be coming

Here and tonight by the strangest ways

That exist, so that the melody could

Be called unreal, perfect for the unreal

Voice that begins to sing :

 

The place, a desert since a long time

For the wild presence that strays in,

Without knowing the exit (if there wasn’t

One ? The last, lost in another century

No chance that it returns). A desert,

Only the three trees of toujours et jamais

No water, only strange beverages for helping

 

V.

A page has just been turned, another

Begins the scripture little letters to

Make impossible the reading except

For that one that sings it since early in

The morning perhaps even the night

And drunk, to endure what is, what

Is not, what can’t be in the world

(The world of this room whose windows

Are all closed because of the summer’s

Cold out) So the song and song easily

Sung without thinking how (there are

years, a lifetime of the how that kills)

So the song and song easily sung and

Comes the sun staying in the darkness

 

VI.

The page is a universe for the one

Who writes propelling little stars

A wind could move them with

A trace of lights in the retina

Persistent closing the eyes then

Disappearing till darkness

No fear of it only peace for an

Hour or more so the song can begin

The strange chords of always

A finger can enable each false note

Rather than destroy and it becomes

Beauty that now can be sung and it is   

 

VII.

Not far away from the ocean (of life

Or wine) where a song begins,

The strangest than can be, some

Words of unknown, of invented

Countries, someone here is singing

In the dream, and finally howls

With the wildlife everywhere, yes

A forest (deep and dark, no end of

It or the only end of suddenly wake

Up, but this doesn’t happen) just howl

And no importance of if it’s heard, if

The trees hear and they can, as the

Stones, memory of the endless night 

 

VIII.

Unending sentence would be the

First and last this night

Words aren’t searched, falling as

A rain or the evidence of tears

For a million reasons, somebody

Here lists them, has the time for,

Who will die having succeeded

To list (or failed) and only now

The song begins, another singing

With impossible voice given for

The circumstance but by whom 

If there’s no one else ?

 

IX.

A window today gives the sun

Of an ancient and lost summer

You who’ve been there for one year,

One century, aren’t you a shadow or

Something similar, ghost perhaps

But singing, with a voice heard from

Here (would be yours, clear as

A deep water) and strange, that

Couldn’t be drunk, « forget it » the

Voice telling those two words

Then sings everything that vanishes

(Vanille, épices, sucre, cailloux, ciguë,

Camphre, parchemins, encre, etc.)

 

X.

Something would happen tonight

And lately, to the page, the special

Inscriptions that appear as letters

And notes, scripture to be sung,

There — a voice coming from nowhere

Or a distant place (d’avant le désert,

Traversée d’un semestre, en prise

Avec les mirages et avoir mangé le

Sable, parfois le ciel) whose body

Occupies the stage, only one light

And blue and the following lyrics : 

« Cosa può ancor’ fare un’ombra »

 

XI.

There — a silent garden or dolce musica

Of strings, a quartet under the sun

Playing for a few people, perhaps only

Themselves and friends and the one

That died yesterday, who could be

Anybody or nobody, pure invention

Per l’intensità dell’ora et c’est

T’apercevoir dans un buisson, qu’y faisais-

Tu — n’est pas dit, la chevelure défaite

How to translate that, et en quelle langue,

That will be sung somewhere in the night

 

XII.

A song of no more songs, no more

The singer, perhaps a lady, perhaps

Not, se retire, in the depths of

A forest que n’arrêtent que les ravins

An edge saturated of strange flowers

Where to start from and fly through

The white clouds of dying, non, pas

Même mourir, something else and

Even else than live, understand is

An old thing, old and forgotten là

Les seuls nuages of a new age (easy)

 

XII.

The words have their chords

That need to be thought but

Quickly and played (it would be

The night of playing under

The stellar golds, warm winds

Someone comes here in the garden

You know, the eternal et sa

Lanterne in order to walk through

And has something to tell, with

Gentle voice, the words forgotten

Like the parenthesis unclosed

 

XIII.

This would be a song of no, no idea

Of what, where it all begins,

Someone, coming and going away —

Disappears, had a message which

Sense suddenly collapses, of a love

That died yesterday, what happened ?

And what has he done of the paper ?

(Morceau de papier jaunâtre, l’encrier

S’y sera renversé, noircissant le mot

Illisible en l’état), song of devastation,

Hard for a song but sung (un singe ici

Chante et hante, the voice, trembling,

 

XIV.

Celebration of those strange hours

Of the day and lights of an uncertain

Sun sung, one voice (voici la voix

Rêvant de hauteurs, to climb, le blanc

Neigeux subsistant dans l’été) which

Echoes terrify or make every

Presence laugh, more than one

Losing the way because of its end

And the impossible return, what’s

Happening ? It happens the dream

Et le drame of an absent outcome :

 

XV.

Here the sentence for an imaginary

Song, never sung or only one time in a

Forgotten garden, nothing heard

About it (if only the garden can exist, not

Invented in the night that begins,

Noise of an ocean not distant from

Here, place of writing, un après-midi

D’écriture for several words, seven

In the end, many words destroyed

Ecrire est incendier). Midnight now,

Pile minuit, not knowing what to add,

Sign that the song must end and it ends

 

XVI.

Here, a song hardly sung (if

There’s a possible voice for) about

Lands in the world that doesn’t

Live for life, dance (les danses

Fussent-elles de solitude) and music

But wars and bloods — only

Horizon — the bloods for nothing and

The forbidden tears of having lost

The most precious presences

Somewhere else, un archipel-refuge

Où l’on s’oriente, leaving the wrong

Places of yesterday and more, the

Peace seen that stays, éternel plateau

 

 

© Denis Ferdinande, 2025. 

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