Pretty Daffodils // Les poèmes de Camille

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

Gorgeously arrayed and 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 angelique,

I spy the bright blue flourishing squills,

of the pretty timid daffodils.

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 fulfill your secret yearnings and satisfy your fiery cravings, I want to soak and swell 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

With this foul and greasy bag of bones.

Why is it that beauty makes me so sad, why is it that beauty makes me so mad?

We search for beauty instinctively, relentlessly, carelessly. Justifying every breath we take, to reach the highest wake. Where beauty reaches its purest form, when the life is peaking and the body is burning like a bright blissful light, ready to give back life.

And then comes the glorious descent,

No matter what is your consent.

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

I couldn’t change, I couldn’t escape, I couldn’t mutate despite wearing 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 blue velvet submission,

Behind the veil of my rose hip lips,

Gently rubbing between my candid hips.

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

Halas, the illusion doesn’t last as I leave the temple, an angel just passed.

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 know that beauty is never enough, love is never enough, sex is never enough, youth is never enough, this is as far as it gets and I just have to take the bets.

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 squill,

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.