If I could avoid making a decision,
I would certainly not be this tired.
It's always a conquest to acknowledge
which is my half of the field.
I look at the leaves, once again whitened on my table.
I have no idea of what to do and thus I'm here
like a man before an interphone
who no longer remembers the last name.
Sometimes, ambitions get confused
and what's new isn't always the best.
What to preserve and what to give in?
After every choice, the bill arrives.
I stare at the thread before me and I'm in danger
inside the traps of every change,
between the forces that have always divided me:
tradition and betrayal.