Pascal Beausse
@pascalbeausse.bsky.social
Conservateur, responsable de la collection photographie du Cnap
Curator, Head of the Photography collection at Centre national des arts plastiques, Paris
Curator, Head of the Photography collection at Centre national des arts plastiques, Paris
The poet’s word is sweet as bird,
Romantic’s tale and prose.
Of stars above and gentle love
And fragrant breeze that blows.
But write they not a single jot
Of beauty tortured sore.
Don’t wonder why such men can lie,
For poets are no more.
Romantic’s tale and prose.
Of stars above and gentle love
And fragrant breeze that blows.
But write they not a single jot
Of beauty tortured sore.
Don’t wonder why such men can lie,
For poets are no more.
November 8, 2025 at 3:58 PM
The poet’s word is sweet as bird,
Romantic’s tale and prose.
Of stars above and gentle love
And fragrant breeze that blows.
But write they not a single jot
Of beauty tortured sore.
Don’t wonder why such men can lie,
For poets are no more.
Romantic’s tale and prose.
Of stars above and gentle love
And fragrant breeze that blows.
But write they not a single jot
Of beauty tortured sore.
Don’t wonder why such men can lie,
For poets are no more.
The Men of Art have lost their heart,
They dream within their dreams.
Their magic sold for price of gold
Amidst a people’s screams.
They sketch the moon and capture bloom
With genius, so they say.
But n’er they sketch the quaking wretch
Who lies in Castlereagh.
They dream within their dreams.
Their magic sold for price of gold
Amidst a people’s screams.
They sketch the moon and capture bloom
With genius, so they say.
But n’er they sketch the quaking wretch
Who lies in Castlereagh.
November 8, 2025 at 3:58 PM
The Men of Art have lost their heart,
They dream within their dreams.
Their magic sold for price of gold
Amidst a people’s screams.
They sketch the moon and capture bloom
With genius, so they say.
But n’er they sketch the quaking wretch
Who lies in Castlereagh.
They dream within their dreams.
Their magic sold for price of gold
Amidst a people’s screams.
They sketch the moon and capture bloom
With genius, so they say.
But n’er they sketch the quaking wretch
Who lies in Castlereagh.