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prose poetry

dans la sphère
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
vous pensez, mon garçon, quand je mets mes bras autour de vous
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
ne soyez pas faux
le maître des destins humains suis moi
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
dites-moi
voici ne tomber aucune lumière

 



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