Ireland Fantasy

J’irai seule, courir après le vent et l’orage,
Dès qu’il meurt, je sens dans mes larmes les naufrages,
Le Code heurte les innocents tour à tour,
Interdisant la pitié et l’amour,
Ce qu’ils disent, en franchissant le sol de ma lande,
Car ils confondent l’Angleterre avec l’Irlande,
Et si je pars, ce sera juste pour lui,
Le temps d’un baiser ou le temps d’une nuit,
Je creuserai la roche pour une éternelle gemme,
Car j’ai beau l’aimer, il meurt quand même.


Welcome to Ireland

It’s a green place in the middle of the Ocean,
And my voice will be subdue with emotion,
A place for Myths and Magic,
With Harps, Violins for the music,
A country of Celtic Culture and love,
There is no problem you can’t solve,
Take your intrument and play something,
Everybody will dance and sing,
In the Pubs, the TV is on,
It’s Guinness Time I reckon,
And now if you go in Drogheda,
It is the time for the Fleadh,
This is my new home and land,
Welcome to Ireland !



Ghosts are real, this much I know,
Haunting and whispering in the shadow,
Spiders crawling on the big clock,
It’s striking twelve again, tic toc…
By itself the piano is playing,
In the dark, someone is screaming,
Ghosts are here, spreading terror,
Butterflies are dead, in the manor,
Mysteries are hidden in the attic,
Surrounded by bones and magic,
Like Halloween, orange and red,
Corridors are full of the dead,
You can’t sleep now, never more,
And crimson is your new color,
Bodies are buried in the garden,
Always my nightmares, it’s my burden…



I have a disease called « Occipital Neuralgia. »
Since I’m a kid I have a horrible pain in my head.
Aching, burning, and throbbing pain. Pain on one or both sides of my head. Pain behind my eyes.
It’s a kind of « orphan disease. » No treatment.
I compare this pain with electricity. Or, like thunder in my brain.
Unfortunately, I don’t’ like the God of Thunder. I don’t like Thor. No, I want the other one…
So, the poem is a metaphor.

Enjoy !

There is thunder in my brain,
I fall on my bed, such a pain,
There is thunder in my mind,
But please just give me a sign.

There is thunder on my Earth,
I can feel it since my birth,
There is thunder in the sky,
When I was looking for a sign.

There is thunder in my home,
He is the King of my Throne,
But, I don’t seek the God of Thunder,
No, I’m looking for his little brother.

There is still thunder in my brain,
And the burn is always the same,
So here comes the common Thief,
The Trickster, the God of Mischief.


How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains

Introduction :
Translation from an original french song I wrote. 
Link here
So, unfortunately, there is no rhyme but the story is the same.
(And thanks to my dear friend Graham who corrected my awful English !)
Enjoy !

The men hold an umbrella in the street,
The women smile and look so relaxed,
The rain can’t stop the couple of lovers,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

People tell me stories about all the myths,
Fairies and Dwarves hidden under Tír na hÓige,
And Hunt Treasures for the most curious,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

The rainbows show the pot of gold,
Next to Leprechauns until the sunrise,
That makes the young and the old dream,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

The sheep walk around the hills,
Always so green up to the top,
And the magic returns to the Heaven,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

After work, it’s the laziness,
Running to the Pub, for a Guinness,
Everything is fine because everybody is happy,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

The Dolmens raise up in the lowlands,
Reminiscing on the magic stories they heard,
And children have sparkles in their eyes,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

People talk, get up and dance,
They all tell me their sweet childhood,
I think he fell in love with me,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

The tide brings back the shipwrecks,
The jellyfish and crabs, on the shore,
The men yell on their favorite football teams,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

The Pints are drunk all night,
And the music makes everyone fearless,
But it’s a place where we can do everything we want,
How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

How beautiful is my Ireland when it rains.

Love Doesn’t Have A Name

He’s like everything I can wish,
He is a Gentleman like every British,
His life’s revenge and England’s fame,
Love doesn’t have a name.

All I remember is the gunshot,
He fought well and he was caught,
He played their dirty little game,
Love doesn’t have a name.

He’ll always be the new guy,
With a strange job like a spy,
He was too naïve and he’s not to blame,
Love doesn’t have a name.

He tastes like good beer and Whiskey,
And his blue eyes went misty,
I talk a lot about him, I feel so ashamed,
Love doesn’t have a name.

He is the hope I never had,
He’s the one who made me glad,
And I’ll never be the same,
Love doesn’t have a name.


Back to the Academy

Ô sombres terreurs dans les champs,
Aux bombes qui explosent à l’instant,
Quand l’école devient notre ennemi,
Tous les élèves fuient l’Académie.
Mais pour la vie que je porte en moi,
Pour cette vie, bénissez-nous tous les trois,
Comme je cours dedans et dehors,
Pour le trouver et pour fuir la Mort.
Devant le bus avant de partir,
Dans ses bras, je veux dormir,
Ô au Boss qui refuse son congé,
Quand sur moi elle teste ses idées,
Aux questions pour tous les génies,
Et les rebuts de son Académie.
À nos fuites sur les échelles,
Et nos prières pour le Ciel,
Et quand l’enfant meurt sous mes yeux,
Assassiné par tous les Odieux,
Les autres courent encore et toujours,
Et encore suivit par mon amour.