Garde de la porte

“Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.”   –  Jean Cocteau

“Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.”   –  George Eliot


Garde de la porte

Her long thin fingers

Barely grasp the pen

She keeps the ledger


Un stylo noir

Ink blood red

Leaves its mark

On cool vellum sheets

All capital letters

She spells out each

Name clearly

No margin for error

Mother, brother, child

Eventually she writes us

All in

Sans jugement

Ou passion

She never tires

Fille de

La mort





About Léa

A wanderer who has found home and herself in the South of France.
This entry was posted in Commentary, Life, Loss, Musings, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

10 Responses to Garde de la porte

  1. saracfry says:

    absolutely love these quotes! : )

  2. This a very powerful poem Lea, I actually wanted it to go on and on, it flows so well. “Ink blood red leaves its mark on cool vellum sheets”. Brilliant line.

    Also of course, it goes without saying, but I always do, the quotes are great. 🙂




  3. Absolutely!! 🙂


  4. Sheila says:

    This gives me chills – it’s a perfect poem for this time of year. Love the quotes too.

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