Weird Prouvaire stuff, the subjects of which I am not the owner, although Aurore is mine...I think...
Aurore
"Jehan?"
I looked up, startled, then smiled as I recognized him. "Bonjour, Enjolras."
"How are you, mon ami?"
"Much the same as always. Er...Enjolras?"
"Yes?"
"Would you please hear a peice of my poetry?"
Enjolras stared at me. "I don't really indentify with your subjects, Jehan."
"Oh, this is different! Please?"
"All right..."
I took a manuscript from the table in front of me, and cleared my throat. Then I began to read the oddly inspired work I had come up with.
"A child walks these streets. She often comes here
Her clothes are in tatters, her face drawn
This child, she represents the poor
But she is not bitter
She is not unhappy with her existance.
She lives
And her life is one she's not afraid to live
To go on
Every day
She is happy
She often walks under my window
And she is singing
And sometimes she looks up
And sees me watch her
Then she smiles
Perhaps calls out, 'Bonjour, Monsieur!'
This child
So accepting, so at peace with her existance
She brings me a sparkle of joy
Just a child, and yet she is so learned.
Just a child
And yet she carries a great deal of hope with her
For what would the world come to
If I could not look out my window
And see happiness incarnate?
In this little child
I see my hope mirrored
That someday
Happy as she is
She may be free and better off
Because of our fight
Which for me
Is for her."
Enjolras raised his eyebrows slightly. "All right, Jehan, but not in your usual vein. And why no rhyme?"
I began to speak, but he silenced me. "I'm sorry. Of course, you must be very pleased with this. I won't offer any more of my criticism, because I'm sure I know nothing about poetry at all."
He stood to leave, but as he went to the door, he turned around and said, "Do you know her name?"
"What?"
"Do you know her name?"
"Whose?"
"The girl. In your poem."
"Oh. It's Aurore."
He nodded, and left.
Aurore
"Jehan?"
I looked up, startled, then smiled as I recognized him. "Bonjour, Enjolras."
"How are you, mon ami?"
"Much the same as always. Er...Enjolras?"
"Yes?"
"Would you please hear a peice of my poetry?"
Enjolras stared at me. "I don't really indentify with your subjects, Jehan."
"Oh, this is different! Please?"
"All right..."
I took a manuscript from the table in front of me, and cleared my throat. Then I began to read the oddly inspired work I had come up with.
"A child walks these streets. She often comes here
Her clothes are in tatters, her face drawn
This child, she represents the poor
But she is not bitter
She is not unhappy with her existance.
She lives
And her life is one she's not afraid to live
To go on
Every day
She is happy
She often walks under my window
And she is singing
And sometimes she looks up
And sees me watch her
Then she smiles
Perhaps calls out, 'Bonjour, Monsieur!'
This child
So accepting, so at peace with her existance
She brings me a sparkle of joy
Just a child, and yet she is so learned.
Just a child
And yet she carries a great deal of hope with her
For what would the world come to
If I could not look out my window
And see happiness incarnate?
In this little child
I see my hope mirrored
That someday
Happy as she is
She may be free and better off
Because of our fight
Which for me
Is for her."
Enjolras raised his eyebrows slightly. "All right, Jehan, but not in your usual vein. And why no rhyme?"
I began to speak, but he silenced me. "I'm sorry. Of course, you must be very pleased with this. I won't offer any more of my criticism, because I'm sure I know nothing about poetry at all."
He stood to leave, but as he went to the door, he turned around and said, "Do you know her name?"
"What?"
"Do you know her name?"
"Whose?"
"The girl. In your poem."
"Oh. It's Aurore."
He nodded, and left.