Poetry by Floran Cazeau

About Floran: “I am an electrical engineer militating in the aeronautical industry as an NDT inspector. I love sport and science; and I am enchanted by any being with a smile and a sense of humor. I do love people, I love life and, of course, I love God the Supreme Being.” – Floran Cazeau

To learn more, visit his website: http://www.floyspoetry.com/author/.

Youth Age
We had no wings
But flew
In all seasons!
Only the heavens
Limited our dreams
And our passions!

Flower of youth!
O age of happiness!
The age,
Of lilies and roses,
Which exhales
The perfume that causes
The warmth of love
To fly boundless!

Age of wild souls
Jailed, in the prison
Of their reason,
That the puritans condemned!
O age of the virgins,
Burning in the mist
Of their passion
And wild desires!

The age of flowers,
That flourishes,
In the dome of Heaven,
Within the soft enclosure
Of dreamy nights,
Where a constellation,
Of two stars, shines!

Age unnoticed or ignored,
At eighteen,
Where the flame,
Burning in you,
Goes unseen!
The age, wildly savored,
In your twenties,
Where your love madness
Blossoms like wild lilies!

Age cried and lamented,
Yet at fifty,
In longing despair
That makes you worry
Of the future,
Causing your eternal fear;
O misfortune dreamer,
Ruminating his days
Of yesteryear!

O Youth is the age
Of the charmers;
Age of eternal lovers,
That we dream forever!

At the gates of hell!
At the gates of hell,
What a macabre surprise!
It would be so dark in there
As you sit next to Lucifer,
Who would no longer
Be in disguise!

There, in the forecourt
Of hell burning dome,
You would face
The curse of Sodom
As the judges of hell
Are ready to declare
The verdict
Of your eternal nightmare!

If you were not
Too bad of a person,
But sought for pardon,
You might not
See here
Your eternal shackles,
But at the threshold of hell,
No chance for bails!

O the gates of hell
Is a no return fence!
There would be no chance
To escape
Or repent your misdeed!
The eternal fire,
Is your last station indeed!

Ah! Here in the mist
Of your burning cell,
You might not be able
To blame Lucifer,
Your actual boss,
O manager of hell
Now ruling you
And your sentenced brothers!

We cannot be too certain,
Children of sin, born stained,
That we’ll make it to paradise!
O at the gates of hell,
It would be too late for bails!

Ah, rare Virtue
That buds and grows
Only in lofty souls;
O souls
That do not bend
When the truth
Is shaken
And subject to scandal!
O Honesty, blushes
And whips,
Even the great captains!

O light so bright
Which goes,
Sometimes unnoticed
And, always
Leaves a heavy mist,
On our faces
And other virtues
In distress,
When it’s cut off,
Or no longer shines!

Moral value
Of unbeatable quality,
Which feeds the soul
And enlivens
Its austerity!
She speaks the truth
Without violence,
As she interrogates
The Heart and conscience,
Even when
We underestimate
Our offense!

Is this scalpel that slices,
Without bleeding,
In its operation,
Or quest
To unveil the truth!
O truth
That illuminates
And brings out
Its satisfaction,
And its naive smile!
Honesty has no intention
To cause boredom,
But she sees itself hurting
When she’s hurt,
Despite its wisdom
And its gentle nature!

O pure virtue
That mixes,
With no ambiguity,
Or shabby business
Of soiled nature!
She coaxes frankness,
And naivety,
And embraces
The truth wildly;
O Truth, she,
Honesty conceives
To be its justifying guide
And unbeatable pride!
Honesty! O Honesty,
Sacred and beloved virtue,
That is so hard
To adopt and profess!

Ah, valeur rare qui chante et bourgeonne,
Seulement chez les âmes hautaines;
Ô âmes qui ne se courbent ni ne freinent
Quand la vérité ne résonne;
Elle flagelle les intentions malsaines
Et fait rougir même les grands capitaines.

Ô cette phare si vive, quelquefois inaperçue,
Qui laisse toujours une brume lourde et épaisse
Sur nos visages, et vertues en détresse,
Quand sa lumière est éteinte ou ne brille plus.

Valeur morale d’inégalable qualité,
Qui nourrit l’âme, et fait resplendir son austérité.
Elle parle et avoue la vérité sans aucun bruit,
Comme elle interroge la conscience et l’esprit,
Même quand on ne se reconnait coupable et avili!

Elle est ce bistouri qui tranche sans saigner,
Dans son opération de démasquer la vérité;
Oui vérité qui l’illumine, et fait jaillir
Sa satisfaction et naïve sourire!
L’honnêté n’a aucun but pour blesser,
Mais qu’elle se voit blesser quand on la blesse
Malgré sa douce nature et sa sagesse!

Ne s’associe à aucune ambiguité,
Ou aucune affaire impropre ou souillée!
Elle cajôle la franchise et la naïveté,
Autant qu’elle baise follement la vérité!
Ô verité, sa lumière et sa fièreté!
L’Honnêteté! Ô beauté sacrée et aimée;
Mais dure à adopter et professer!