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Title of a semi-poetic text I wrote. The title could be translated as Wide Blue Ice Doors.

I was in a bus, getting back to home after having visited an exposition called Les Nouveaux Nouveaux Mondes (The New New Worlds) - I already had gone to the same exposition the year before and it was, as you already guessed, called Les Nouveaux Mondes (The New Worlds). I really enjoyed it (particularly a giant Pong which I played against a friend (and won) and other wonderful things you enjoy even more when you're stoned.

Because I was, somehow, stoned.

And I was in this half-empty bus, feeling as much of the world as I could, when a girl entered and sat in front of me. The two seats were face to face, and rather close. She was pretty and seemed to be shy too, which did not stop me from observing her.

I took one of the small notebooks I always have with me, a pen, and started to write.

Then I went home.

Then I forgot about it.

I was first surprised when I found this text a few months later, but then it brought back to my mind not only every minute of this short bus trip, but also every thought and feeling I experienced during said moment.

This is probably the only reason why I enjoy it, but I thought I'd share it here. A few users adviced me to do so : Node Everything and Node your poetry, they said. A nice person told me that poems in French or other languages would be very welcome here.

Finally, I am sorry, but lack the English skills needed to translate it. I'm sure many Everythingians know French, and hope at least a few of them will like it.

Here it is, without any link to avoid creating many unwanted (I presume) French nodeshells.

Grandes portes bleues de glace

et sourire
à double-fond,
des parois sonores tournées vers l'intérieur,

une quelconque mélodie

son odeur est une sucrerie dont
on ne saurait abuser

à la fois lancinante
et entêtante elle est
la spirale qui me mène en son propre coeur,
piège cruel
comme une cellule vide
aux murs domestiques,
et dont j'ai brisé les poignées

Des mains n'étant que des groupements
de doigts que je tire et retourne
pour son plus grand plaisir
lorsque je tourne encore un peu plus,
les jambes dirigées vers un horizon inexistant,
les jambes ouvertes
sur tout ce qu'elle ne possèdera

Elle est le vide,
celle que je dois
emplir pour détourer le néant,
réduire à ce qu'elle a toujours été,
loin des mystères d'un secret hypothetique

Une anse sur mon genou et
une main sur le sien,
seul contact imaginable entre deux mondes
dont la fusion ne ferait que confirmer
ce que je suis,
ce qu'elle n'est pas

Elle me désire tout autant que je la déteste
et ma haine fait naître le besoin,

sois un objet, ne te laisse pas faire,

Caresses mentales
ce soir tu penseras à moi,
tu ne pourras imaginer ma voix
et je serais ton pantin désarticulé
aux sacades rythmées,
une poupée dévouée à une cause unique,
celle à laquelle tu ne veux pas faire face quand,
déjà, tu esquisses un mouvement :

tu vas te lever

Pars, je t'en supplie, reste,

approche toi

plus loin

fais le pour toi

Tout est perdu à tout jamais
tu n'auras pas cette occasion à nouveau,
et j'ai dis non
tu me laisses redescendre,
pourquoi me laisser croire, être ce que je suis

Ces dents trop parfaites
que j'aurai souillées,
elles rient mais tes yeux pleurent,
tu l'écoutes mais ne l'entend pas,
je suis toujours là,
tu sais que j'écris pour toi

mais tu n'en liras jamais rien

Tu plisses ton front
ou incline ta tête
mais sans conviction
car la barrière d'or de tes cheveux
ne me laisse entrevoir
ton âme
que lorsque tu bailles

Et tu es alors,
plus féroce que jamais,
celle que tu aurais dû être,
mais que tu ne serais jamais devenue
si tu étais restée tout simplement là.

Any comments on this text, or on the noding of other similar texts in French are highly welcome.
Babelfish translation of this poem by Alex-K :

Large blue gates of ice

and smile
with double bottom,
from the sound walls turned towards the interior,
an unspecified melody

its odor is a sugar refinery
which one could not misuse 

at the same time throbbing and entêtante
it is the spiral
which carries out me in its own heart,

trap cruel
like a blank cell
with the domestic walls,
and I broke the handles

Hands being only
groupings of fingers
which I draw and turn over
for his greater pleasure

when I turn still a little more,
legs directed towards a non-existent horizon,
legs open on all that it will never possèdera

It is the vacuum, obsession,
that which I must have,
to fill up
to rout nothing,
to abuse, gray, reduce so that it always was,
far from the mysteries of a secrecy hypothetic

A handle on my knee and a hand on his,
only conceivable contact between two worlds
whose fusion would make only confirm what I am,
which it is not

It wishes me very
as much as I hate it
and my hatred given birth to the need,
would be an object,
does not let themselves make,
beseeches, notes, cries

Ceaseless mental caresses
this evening you will think of me,
you will not be able to imagine my voice
and I would be your puppet désarticulé
with the rythmées sacades,
a headstock devoted to a single cause,
that to which you do not want to face when,
already, you drafts a movement:

you will raise you I leave t'en beg,
remains, approach further make for you me

All is lost forever
you will not have this occasion again,
and I have say not you me leashes to go down again,
why let me believe, to be what I am

These too perfect teeth that I will have soiled,
they laugh but your eyes cry, worry, suffer, despair
you it listenings but does not hear it,
I am always there,
you know that I write for you
but you will never read anything of it

You fold your face or inclines your head
but without conviction
because the gold barrier of your hair lets me foresee your heart
only when you bailles

And you are then, wilder than ever,
that which you should have been,
but that you would never have become
if you had remained quite simply there.

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