Thank you, Ian, Ron & Ed, for your comments. As several of my readers have gently reminded me (that they don't nohow speak that froggie tongue), below is a translation of the poem. I was astounded and perturbed to learn today, that one of my oldest and dearest friends from the late 60s passed into eternity the very same night that this poem came to be in the course of a rather turbulent dream. I recall awakening from disquieted sleep and putting the essence of this down at about 11 PM; I am told my friend exited his worldly identity at about 10PM. Spooky? Perhaps, but more reinforcement of Hamlet's famed soliloquy ("There are more things in Heaven and Earth Horatio...etc.")!

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Out of nowhere
Into out-there,
Through the smallest
Hours of the night,
The central question
Yet persists, uncaring,
As we struggle on,
Ever worse for wear.
Whatever Gods are
Laughing now,
Their mirth transcends
Us, why should they care?
Out of the night
That shuts out reason,
Out of the dark
That knows no season,
We blunder on
Unto the dawn.

Luckily I've always been a sound sleeper and rarely remember my dreams or the creatures that populate them. But my late wife, a very light sleeper, would often instigate some very weird conversations as she sought my help in trying to make sense of her dreams.Perhaps when thinking about "such stuff as dreams are made on," the opposite of Shakespeare's words is the truth. Rather than their little lives being ended with a sleep, they are actually ended by an awakening.

Reference:
We are such stuff ss dreams are made on;
and our little life is rounded with a sleep.(The Tempest Act 4 Scene 1)

Wish I could read French. Flunked it during my doctoral engineering studies and never pursued again. The Illuminati is not you are writing about, thank goodness.

Enough of that virus going around these days.

Ron

If I could understand it I would write of it, but being intellectually unsound in the vein of other languages, I won't, but it looks pretty...-e-