Rag-no-word

Again. Again and again.

I have so clear an image of you. But it's not images or sounds I need, but words !

I've given up on the Rag for now.
I'll attempt to write a novel with a plot, for a change, even if it's a basic and classic one. It all came to me in the middle of the night : Poetical warriors.
I'm writing it in French. French is the perfect language for that piece.

Sous l’eau claire qui bouillonnait, le fond de la vieille casserole scintillait. Un mince filet de vapeur s’élevait et tourbillonnait avant de se répandre dans l’air encore silencieux. Surgie du matin une main lança dans l’eau une poignée de sel, d’herbes et de grains pâles, et mélangea la soupe, remuant la mixture avec une longue cuillère de bois. L’autre main se leva et frotta doucement un front plissé, sous lequel sages et gris, deux yeux brillaient.
Mudrec, assis sur un roc gelé, regardait la montée du Soleil.

[ap. tr.] Under the clear boiling water, the bottom of the old pan twinkled. A thin thread of steam rose and whirled before it scattered in the ever silent air. Popping up from the morning a hand threw a fistful of salt, herbs and pale corns in the water, and stirred the soup with a long wooden spoon. The other hand rose and gently rubbed a wrinkled brow, under which, wise and grey, two eyes were shining.
Mudrec, sitting on a frozen rock, was watching the sun scrambling up.