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les poèts le disent
nous avons aucune honte?
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
elle a entendu les enfants jouer au soleil
je ne prie pas pour la paix
doucement maintenant la lumière du jour
peut-être
vous a fait entendent parler jamais
étaient elle pas pour cette odeur singulière
j'aime les vieilles configurations melodious
le soleil est vers le haut
une fois ce gazon mou

 



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