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A partir d'une de mes acryliques sur toile

www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZz5pczjy30

Round, like a circle in a spiral Like a wheel within a wheel. Never ending or beginning, On an ever spinning wheel Like a snowball down a mountain Or a carnaval balloon Like a carousell that's turning Running rings around the moon Like a clock whose hands are sweeping Past the minutes on it's face And the world is like an apple Whirling silently in space Like the circles that you find In the windmills of your mind Like a tunnel that you follow To a tunnel of it's own Down a hollow to a cavern Where the sun has never shone Like a door that keeps revolving In a half forgotten dream Or the ripples from a pebble Someone tosses in a stream. Like a clock whose hands are sweeping Past the minutes on it's face And the world is like an apple Whirling silently in space Like the circles that you find In the windmills of your mind Keys that jingle in your pocket Words that jangle your head Why did summer go so quickly Was it something that I said Lovers walking allong the shore, Leave their footprints in the sand Was the sound of distant drumming Just the fingers of your hand Pictures hanging in a hallway And a fragment of this song Half remembered names and faces But to whom do they belong When you knew that it was over Were you suddenly aware That the autumn leaves were turning To the color of her hair Like a circle in a spiral Like a wheel within a wheel Never ending or beginning, On an ever spinning wheel As the images unwind Like the circle that you find In the windmills of your mind Pictures hanging in a hallway And the fragment of this song Half remembered names and faces But to whom do they belong When you knew that it was over Were you suddenly aware That the autumn leaves were turning To the color of her hair Like a circle in a spiral Like a wheel within a wheel Never ending or beginning, On an ever spinning wheel As the images unwind Like the circles that you find In the windmills of your mind

Elfepüssy aux dernières nouvelles

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveler returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action.