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type of poetry

quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
deux rangées des choux
je ne prie pas pour la paix
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
vous a fait entendent parler jamais
s'il
et comment avez osé vous rêve de la réunion
bien que je sois peu en tant que toutes les petites choses
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
un mille derrière
la noblesse de la mort encore
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville

 



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