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thanksgiving poetry

serene d'après-midi et lumineux verts
une petite pêche dans le verger s'est développée
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
pour vêtir la pensée ardente
parmi les montagnes j'ai erré
pour moi étais un conseiller décharné et grave
je ne brûle aucun encens
les montagnes ils sont les gens silencieux
j'étais une déesse avant que le marbre m'ait trouvé
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré

 



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