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epic poetry

la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
un mille derrière
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
bruits qui tâchent de déchirer
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
ce que je souhaite remarquer
plantons
j'ai vu qu'un dieu vous doutent de lui?
la nuit était noire et triste
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
comment sauvage, comment sorcière-comme étrange qui la vie devrait être
je me suis tenu
faites les garçons et les filles vont toujours
quand j'ai regardé dans vos yeux

 



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  • London Poetry Festival (London SE1)
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