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narrative poetry

à partir du sud à la coupure du jour
je l'aime
dites-moi
ombres à ailes balayant près
allés sont les trois, ces soeurs rares
si perdu
je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai
remuez
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
quand absence de sa taille de montagne
il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
avec le coucher du soleil

 



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