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funeral poem

tous en baisse les années
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
prenez mes bracelets
avec les yeux doux et bruns
avec le rouge de sang de lèvres et le coeur de la pierre
pourquoi
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
l'obscurité vole les formes de toutes les reines
les vérités terribles ceux-ci soient
souvent je pense à la belle ville
j'ai vu que vous hunched et tremblant sur les pierres

 



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