Balade en France

'Entre deux amis n'a que deux paroles.' is so true and more so when we take a walk. Walking is spiritual; there is poise and pause in motion. Man or Woman is two faces of the same coin and those who can pass through the coin know the deceptiveness of the duality. I sauntered aimlessly till the last minute and when my face raddled, I happen to meet a Muse, accompanied by Musagetes. We went on a promenade along the rade anchored, the rains had stopped and the sun showed up...
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'Entre deux amis n'a que deux paroles.' is so true and more so when we take a walk. Walking is spiritual; there is poise and pause in motion. Man or Woman is two faces of the same coin and those who can pass through the coin know the deceptiveness of the duality. I sauntered aimlessly till the last minute and when my face raddled, I happen to meet a Muse, accompanied by Musagetes. We went on a promenade along the rade anchored, the rains had stopped and the sun showed up intermittently, the butterflies deluded us with their colored wings of green, blue, yellow, red...and brown on colored nature. There wasn't any form, any identity or name - the nature was wholesome.A White muse stood beside a statue of serenity, photographing the moment in Time. She was lovely. She was holding in her right hand a lyre, and in her left had a lute. Cupid was holding a flambeau and was standing beside her. The myrtle was all around her. The morning was clear and the mountain stood there in eternity watching the photographer taking the picture of the timeless.Musagetes seldom spoke, he wore a muzzle and that made me to pause and muse at what she said as we walked along. Who was the muse, who inspired me and wrote that poem? Was she Erato? Or should have been Polymnia? Standing their veiled - thinking deeply but ready to harangue. Or is she Thalia?I hardly knew French, I struggled even to conjugate a simple verb. It can't be the translator; the software didn't know how to choose the words. Who wrote the poem in French? It wasn't me, certainly, who was the muse who wrote it?The clouds engulfed the rade and the butterflies disappeared, I began to muse for a while. We began to ascent a slippery passage and when I turned back, I saw Musagetes helping the white muse and it began to rain and it made the ascent difficult. We stopped under a canopy and so did the butterflies. The weather was unforgiving.