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short poem

quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
elle a dit
ne tournez pas votre tête
affligez-vous pas pour l'invisible
avec la joie et la merveille
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
la terre garde aller de vibration
indéfiniment
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
filles de temps
dans l'obscurité et la paix de mon lit final
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre

 



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