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cowboy poetry

sommeil, frère gris de la mort
treize ans toujours
si j'étais très sûr
basculé dans le berceau du profond
j'ai jeté mon âme à l'air comme un vol de faucon
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
le vieil ouest, le vieux temps
ombres à ailes balayant près
la lune se levante a caché les étoiles
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
tristes sont ils qui savent pas l'amour

 



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