I had delayed your death but today I am willing to assume it and write about it.
There was no last time for me:
Your trail is lost and the pain of a phone call does not change my hatred for you.
They say you died in your bed, of that which you had asked for so much,
of what you had rehearsed so much: "Le père au coeur" comes to my mind.
You left when you were already gone,
already lost from my heart
There was no pain for me.
Dying, I pictured you in your bed
looking at the sky, breathing hard,
and thinking, "am I playing again?"
Your dry lips, cold sweat on your forehead, your hand "au coeur" in a sign of pain.
Maybe an extra beat or an excessive rhythm alerted your truth;
you then surely felt fear, and no longer knew how to stop it,
you got lost in your barbaric game of rehearsals
and it alone, alone stopped, without you to help it.
Distant calls finally announced that you were finally gone.
Some brothers wept, while others prefered to remain silent.
I never knew whether God spoke with you again.
I, ... I think not.
Those had always been lies, nonsense of yours,
remains of a total lack of adventure in your life.