J'y suis, et pourtant, on ne s'en rend pas compte
"I am here, et yet, nobody seems to realize"
Petulant red rose petals flitting but for a gentle breeze
perched upon their arches, yearning examples
of blossom in otherwise destitute exile
gone from ember kissed hues to ashen white.
There is a gaunt embrace in a wind bearing chill,
rending skin, flaying away the very fibers of sensation;
there is peace on unproductive plains, flakes of a spiritual
life with no god, only echoing screams of pain and cries
scattering what may still hang from pronged sprigs.
Le Canada n'est que quelques arpents de neige
"Canada is no more than a few snowy acres"
There is a vast quality to this emptiness, it overwhelms;
like the sun to an eye during an eclipse, a life overshadowed
by meaningless struggles and discomfort. It is romantic,
and yet only tragically sought out -- the disparate solace
of artistic insanity. The figment of a world in which there
can be no concept of other, of you, of bearing witness
to a self, no discovery.
If passion is born from fire, this is a land of disciplined
purposelessness, a wandering sea otter whose only friend
is a chipped pebble.