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christian poem

j'ai vu les archangels dans mon pomme-arbre la nuit passée
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
basculé dans le berceau du profond
pour la vérité, pour l'amour
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
laissez-moi être triste
ami, dont le sourire est venu pour être
pour venir tellement bientôt à ceci a imaginé l'obscurité
comme égaliser tombe

 



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