Flowers had grown, quiet. The life had been following its course. But outside the paths of the poet, Voices were being hoarse. His house, as his life, colored by the sadness. Some souvenirs to furnish the space, Which the dust slowly dresses, And that the sun sometimes embrace. In his room , the remains of an old opened book, Fragments of melodies which the life has took. And on the other side, alone at the piano, Playing some lines Of his life in solo. From his opened window, The wind touching his back, And in his memory, intact, Some sorrows in echo.

No wanderings from the past, In agreement with the music. But when the notes don't last, The strokes of the keys are more nostalgic. A song returning to his mind, That he could have played even if he was blind. This song which he doesn't manage any more to play, Which revives the wounds to flay. Nevertheless his fingers don't stop to dance, On the keys which spread out in front of him, Everything is better than the silence, Which insidiously tears his skin. Flowers had grown, quiet. The life had been following its course. But inside the paths of the poet, Voices are still hoarse.

©Copyright Erika Arpin 1999-2009 Tous droits réservés

Original music by Final Fantasy VII

©Copyright picture Erika Arpin