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poetry poem

je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
sous la lune de moisson
splendide et terrible votre amour
homme froid sévère
ombres à ailes balayant près
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
il y a trois manières dont les hommes prennent
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trĂ´ne d'or
stand ici par mon côté
levé des morts
avec la joie et la merveille
je vois tous les esprits humains

 



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