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short poem

ils dans le rassemblement d'obscurité et demandent
je suis une femme
vous faites ne pas entendre
je suis le vent qui hésite
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
qui aime la pluie
les poèts le disent
leurs beaux cheveux
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
dans le port de New York
il y a mille années silencieuses
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles

 



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