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inspirational poetry

le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
vous pensez, mon garçon, quand je mets mes bras autour de vous
levé des morts
j'aime mon heure de vent et de lumière
parmi les montagnes j'ai erré
je me tiens par temps gris froid
je descends les chemins de jardin
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
roses et or
quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes
je meurs
je ne brûle aucun encens


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