Pretty daffodils

Ceci est un poème que j’ai écrit sur la beauté et le narcissisme.

Ça tombe bien c’est le printemps. Il est venu le temps d’admirer les fleurs et leur beauté éphémère…sans les cueillir pour les posséder.

This is a poem I wrote about beauty and narcissism.

Good thing spring has come. It is time to admire flowers and their beauty… without picking them to own them.

No French translation available

I am walking down the garden path of my favourite secret garden,

Gorgeously arrayed, enchanted by the green blooming rain,

The longing heavens bowing to this subtle dazzling paint,

Draped in ruffian black velvet,

I am the perfect villain to my saint.

With my good faithful eye and my well humoured cheek,

Searching with flair, pretending to be angelic,

I spy the bright blue flourishing squill,

And the pretty timid daffodil.

My cheerful blood is melting,

My hunting spirit is shaking.

What a divine tempting surprise,

When I was trying to be so wise.

Oh little pretty daffodil I want to pick you, I want to own you,

I want to taste your colours. I want to fulfil my secret yearnings and satisfy my fiery cravings.

I want to suck and sway this fleeting beauty oh ever ever so dainty.

Suddenly I feel envy, Suddenly I feel pity,

As I wish I was that pretty,

So I wouldn’t feel so lonely.

I look down at my lady’s lovely curves,

My princess veil is no longer what I deserve,

I am nothing but a pile of stones,

A foul and greasy bag of bones.

I remember my first heartbreak when I realised my soul came in this shape.

I couldn’t change, I couldn’t escape despite wearing a different cape.

My heart longed to belong and I searched for a holy place within a man’s tender embrace,

Oh hello second heartbreak.

I dreamt of an extra cosmic union, a feverish tempestuous dance,

Where I would leave this sour confinement and hypocrite romance.

If I sucked the last drop of someone else’s heart would I feel fuller?

Would life be quicker?

If I was prettier, would I feel more alive?

Would I be worthier?

I stand ashamed before the ashes of my passion,

Hiding away in an endless submission,

Gently rubbing between my candid hips,

Breaking the veil of my rose hip lips.

I swallow the silver Grail and grasp my liberty from this bittersweet symphony.

Halas, the illusion doesn’t last.

So many roses in my tears, my anger is red and my sorrow is bare,

There is no truth in lust,

There is no faith in trust,

Only I, lovely pretty fool, left as a tool.

I am ashamed to be so vain,

I am ashamed to be humane.

My soul is crushed and my spirt is sore,

For wearing too many masks in an endless war.

In French we call the daffodil: Narcisse. Ironic isn’t it?

Oh little pretty daffodil,

You tricked me little devil !

When all I had to do, was lie next to you,

And try to forget about myself.

Now, I must fall silent and simply listen,

For my brothers the wind, and the trees and the birds,

Surely have more wisdom,

Than my lovely bitter words.

Camille Pellicer Avril 2022