Poetry

Hawk who shake, off your wings, comets and falling stars,
A brass plate now freezes your fits of wrath, a nail,
Red hearted bead supposed to cast on wolves a spell,
Confined in a showcase, your preyless pounce can't start.

Which etching fluid did drench your claws in keen impulse?
Which rage towards rivals? Was it the ring, the chain?
Which stainless blood your wing to other blood did strain?
Which feast did in your flesh flare up such revivals?

Since the hood is removed, in full light, you're blinded
By a blue sky that is, like the night, dark, endless.
You are lift up by fear, by hunger or by death

Which are of more divine essence than mock hatred.
Your soaring by your feast's squirting blood besmirched:
Is your fate an image of a self-gnawing heart?
 
Epervier, ébrouant étoiles et comètes,
Un blason figera tes colères, un clou,
Astre au poitrail rougi envoûtera le loup.
Sous vitrine brisés, tes vols sans vols s'émettent.

Quel acide nimbait tes crocs d'instincts jaloux?
Quelle rage vers tes rivaux, bague, non chaîne?
Quel sang inaltéré vers outre sang s'empenne?
Quel festin dans tes chairs qui se ranime et joue?

Le corselet ravi t'aveugle, clarté pleine,
L'azur qui semble nuit, nuit qui n'aura de fin.
Te soulèvent la peur, ou la mort, ou la faim,

Comme un bord plus divin que prétexte ta haine.
Le sang de ton festin constelle ton essor.
D'un coeur qui se rongea, figures-tu le sort?