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death poetry

il y a mille années silencieuses
nous avons aucune honte?
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
dans l'obscurité et la paix de mon lit final
ami, dont le sourire est venu pour être
ne soyez pas faux
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
contre la flamme verte de l'aubépine-arbre
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
il y a un pays complètement de vin
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer

 



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