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memorial poem

behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
j'ai jeté mon âme à l'air comme un vol de faucon
lĂ  par la fenĂŞtre dans la vieille maison
je me tiens par temps gris froid
glooms des vivre-chĂŞnes
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
je sais ce que vous allez dire
tressé et tissé
fait longtemps polir la lumière du soleil d'été
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée

 



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