Be quiet. The francophonics are out.

Be quiet, really now.

Although you don’t see them, the francophonics are out.

Hide, although you don’t hear them, they say many things.

Talk to my ears they will, on every occasion.

At every chance, if I be king of the mountains and my eardrums block,

they will play their tune and rock.

 

Be quiet, really now, shush,

the francophonics, those little men in yellow

just can’t keep quiet inside my head so mellow.

They will throw little stoned words in other languages than mine

-every time I switch side to my palate tongue vine-

As if they’d recognise my own little jigsaw labyrinth in down half Nicosia,

because I chose to ignore the language of my northern half.

 

Be quiet, keep it low,

or the francophonics will come out in the streets

and trust me I would not want any of my breed to learn what I know,

what they have passed over to me.

The francophonics are a breed of their own

forgotten here in isolation

after years of dear consolation.

Because the island has made its choice of language

and they decided to stay in dark shadows inside thick matter inside my head.

 

Shhh, turn it to mute,

you might hear them talk to their younger sisters.

Sitting on their golden chairs under the roots of my hair,

sewing the side veils of my venetian masks

are the lunaphones,

the degenerate women worshiping the full moons of my miserable life.

The lunaphonics come out and talk to me every month,

when they are sure the francophonics are asleep,

and they tell me other truths, totally contradicting,

and I don’t know who to believe,

the lunaphonics or the francophonics,

I guess I should go with the latter,

they are more ancient, for that matter.

And they have a more gentle, aristocratic background.

That much my island deserves.

 

Be quiet now, and don’t talk to my ear while I sleep,

for they hear, they know every little bit.