The widow's laughter

Leaves are falling all over the land and the red dark walls of Birmingham cry autumn has come. The weak sun doesn’t appear but awakes from Dawn to death,

when clocks show it is six,

when nobody is laid to sleep.

I would confess my fears if there was a sudden noise, a breath of fury, but everything is quiet, everything seems to be a letter written by a sleeper. Therefore I think about the wind snuggled up against my hands.

Everything is but a night dream. Thoughts only night walkers could feel when they slip on the pavement,

and fly for one second.

I know there is no fear actually, there are no walls raised up in front of my forehead, there are just tortured ways which pass across the hills, and whistle that stars are going to vanish one more time.

Those ways I can’t feel because of the cold circling my neck

and pretending to be a scarf.

The canal’s streams remind me that the time is running away,
and that my shoulders can’t be swallowed by a strong deep chill of already cried memories.

The lights, reflected from the water, are dancing upon the bricks like a forgotten banquet upon a demand of absolution.

It reminds me the Ocean,

the waves’ voices mixed to laughter,

the parties I’ve never been to,

the old widow crying because of joy on the fair’s ground.

Now, I’m sure it is not an exile but a bracket.

Birmingham, 28th of October. 2007

When fog comes into the sheep barn

England whispers in my ear there is no rain.

There are just the sun’s tears, like spindrifts over the umbrellas.

The city is at my feet all day long, and I watch folk through the window.

It is just fast walkers when sky is falling down,

It is just dancers in the rain each time they want to forget that there is no lullaby by night,

When they come back home,

When they wear their worn dreams.

Sometimes, sunlight appears and it is like a party in their minds. There is nothing but their

arms circling life, circling the whole day, circling their youth as if it were their last present.

I guess I love this clear white crowded light.

There is a sound in that country, a whistle, which tells me that it’s not an island’s lyrics but that everything abroad is a kind of Island whose lies nobody here can understand.

I lay down on my bed, I’m surprised to think as they do.

Maybe I’ll have spindrifts over my umbrella.

Birmingham, 17/10/2007

Going back to the stars

Brainstorming

Well, I think the time for you has come to have some news.
Everything is ok here, even the weather which has been pretty sunny for three days. I am living with 12 other students of whom 3 other French. We are trying to improve our English, as you can read; it’s quite hard for everyone (except for Anne, you will be able to see her hair in a picture).
My room is just 9m², but it is a pleasant one (of course, seen from the 18th floor, any city is the most beautiful anyone has ever seen). Birmingham is an ugly place, really, but it has a charm, a real pretty charm coming from nowhere.

For the moment, everything is well, except for the fact that I am not able to take Harry Potter in my hand, and try reading.
Lectures are quite difficult (especially economy) but I think it is quite normal for a foreigner in that country.

I am sorry for this post which is about my real life, but it is the easiest way for me to let everybody know about my state of mind.
Anyway, see you soon, via e-mails, letters, msn or skype, and please,
Enjoy!

Philou, learning a new language.

Sometimes, life is but a Washing Machine.

Birmingham, Lawrence Tower, le 6/10/2007