#PoetryTakeMeAway
EPITAPH
He killed himself from the fury of passion, or died from laziness. If he lives, itās thanks to oblivion.
Hereās what he leaves for himself:
-His only regret was not being his own lover.
-He was not born for any purpose; he was always driven by the wind ahead: a mixed platter of leftovers, an adulterated mix of everything.
Of the not knowing - but without knowing where;
of gold - but without a dime;
of nerves - without strength;
vigor without force;
of the impulse - with a twist;
of the soul - and no violin;
of love - but a dreadful stallion.
Too many names, to have just one.
Adventurer of ideals - without an idea;
rich rhyme - and never rhymed;
without having been - upon returning, he found himself lost everywhere.
Poet, in spite of his verses;
artist without art - in reverse;
philosopher - straight and sideways.
A funny serious type - not funny at all;
actor: he didnāt know his part;
painter: he played the bagpipes;
and musician: with the palette.
A head! - but without a head;
too crazy to know how to be stupid;
he took a trait for the word très. - His false verses were the only true ones.
Rare bird - and of trinkets;
very male - and sometimes very female;
capable of everything and good for nothing, he well harvested evil, poorly good.
Prodigal like the son of the Testament - without a testament.
Intrepid: and sometimes, out of fear of the āplat,ā he would dip his feet in the dish.
Furious colorist - but pale;
misunderstood - especially by himself;
he cried, sang with perfect discord; and was a flaw without flaws.
He never knew how to be someone, nor something. His naturalness was a pose.
Too naïve, while too cynical;
completely incredulous, while believing in everything. What gave him pleasure was disgust.
Too raw - because he was too cooked,
to nothing less resembling than himself, he amused himself with his own boredom until waking up at night.
Wanderer at sea, adrift, a wreck that never arrives...
Too himself to be able to bear himself, with a dry spirit and a drunken head,
finished but unable to finish, he died awaiting to live and lived awaiting to die.
Here lies, heart without a heart, barren: too successful - like a failure.
Tristan Corbière
