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mother poem

les longs couloirs de marbre resounding
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
la terre garde aller de vibration
voyez, ils retournent
hors de moi indigne et inconnu
le mouvement de votre corps est comme la musique
bas! 'tis par nuit de gala
le pré rampait
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
par le pont grossier
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
je ne prie pas pour la paix
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai

 



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