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african american poetry

j'aime ma vie, mais pas trop bien
si je meurs, pensez seulement ceci ŕ moi
est souvent il pas aussi?
le vieil ouest, le vieux temps
élever, comme vent a soufflé
sommeil, frčre gris de la mort
il y a bien longtemps, dans le jeune clair de lune
j'ai vu les nuages parmi les collines
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement
il n'y avait jamais un bruit prčs du bois mais d'un

 



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