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family poem

la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
l'enfant qui a jeté la feuille après feuille
tous en baisse les années
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
ne soyez pas faux
je vous chante
les poèts le disent
il y a bien longtemps, dans le jeune clair de lune
l'air est comme un papillon
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs

 



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