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kid poem

oranges de plumaison nubian bleu-noires
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
sous ma fenĂŞtre dans une rue de ville
simplement parlant
sans aucun doute je me rappelle toujours
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
se reposer dans son culbuteur attendant votre thé
vous a fait entendent parler jamais
tous ces trésors qui se trouvent
si perdu
et ainsi elle va
comment comme les étoiles sont ces le blanc, les visages inconnus
bruits qui tâchent de déchirer

 



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