|La charmeuse de serpents, Henri Rousseau - Musée d'Orsay - Reproduction trouvée ici|
Certaines pensées me viennent plus spontanément en anglais. C'est un fait, c'est comme ça. Je sais que des gens me lisent en faisant l'effort de traduire. Merci.
J'aurais aimé que ce blog puisse proposer une traduction automatique mais pour l'instant, je n'ai pas trouvé comment faire.*
*C'est chose faite maintenant, il suffit de cliquer sur la langue de son choix dans la fenêtre à droite.
My grief is a wild animal.
I wish it were a lion, a tiger or a wolf.
I could face it, look straight into its eyes and fight back.
It isn't a wild beast, all panting and roaring. No. It's a wild animal that I can't see, nor hear.
At first, I thought I could break it. Like a young horse.
I lured myself in believing that patience, time and love would do the trick. I thought that after a few years, the animal wouldn't be as wild as it used to be. That I would be able to see it coming...
But I don't.
I had known from the first second that my grief would always be in my life. I never thought I could get rid of it. But I had hoped that I could managed to see my emotions coming.
I don't hear my grief. I don't smell my sorrow. I don't see my sadness.
Every once in a while, my grief overcomes everything. It comes uninvited, almost unexpected.
It sneaks into my life like a snake would crawl between my feet.
Don't go away... Wait! I know what I'll do.
I gonna learn to play the pungi ! And you will see how I'll deal with that snake of mine...