Hier encore j’étais vivante.
Aujourd’hui, je suis morte surtout.
Je vous l’assure, vraiment, c’est tout.
Mais il y’a, bien sûr, encore.
-----
Translation
Just yesterday I was alive.
Today, I am mostly dead.
I assure you, really, that’s all
But there is, of course, more.
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Charles Aznavour - Hier Encore (Just Yesterday)
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Who’s Afraid of Tomorrow - I Was Yesterday
Who’s afraid of tomorrow? I suddenly thought while taking a short break from writing. I guess that there’s no real break when writing. Methinks that most people are afraid of the future. But I didn’t think of the future, I thought of tomorrow, which may be construed as the future, but I just meant the day after today, namely tomorrow. Most people are not afraid of tomorrow, but I was yesterday. I was afraid of today, but I’m not afraid of tomorrow. Today, I understood that tomorrow doesn’t exist. There’s only now, this moment, as I can hear the keys of my keyboard clicking under the pressure of my fingers directed by my thought of tomorrow, yesterday, and today. I’m not afraid of tomorrow. I’m afraid of today. Why? Because my fingers have suddenly slowed down, the keys are slowly becoming silent as I’m typing the last word.
About the Creator
Patrick M. Ohana
A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. Most of my pieces (over 2,200) are or will be available on Shakespeare's Shoes.
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More stories from Patrick M. Ohana and writers in Poets and other communities.
I Will Love You for 24,000 Years
In 2013, news appeared about a newly found world, nicknamed “Einstein’s planet”, that orbits its star every 36 hours. It is located around 2,000 light-years from Earth in the Cygnus constellation. Since a year is so short on this planet, any intelligent life must be very brilliant.
By Patrick M. Ohana2 years ago in Poets
The Sound That Carries Me
When I lie in bed, the train always finds me. The wheels slam against the tracks, loud and unforgiving, like something inside me that never learned how to rest. The horn cuts through the dark in broken intervals. Too close, too real, impossible to ignore. It drags me back to the fields of my childhood. Back when I thought life was simple. It wasn't. I just didn't have the language for how heavy it already felt. I was small, trying to survive things I didn't know how to name yet.
By Sarai Jakubczak4 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
Mélancolique, sans doute, les paroles de Charles Aznavour.