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suicide poetry

tressé et tissé
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai
à l'aube, il a dit
désolé et seul
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
elle connaît un dégagement bon marché
quand le voile des yeux est soulevé
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement
un oiseau a chanté
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
mais je ne puis pas vous lire maintenant
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant

 



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