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religious poem

il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
en septembre
puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort
le ciel
ne tournez pas votre tĂŞte
vous faites entendre
descendu Ă  l'aube des collines windless
je remplis cette tasse
travails de la terre
j'ai vu que vous hunched et tremblant sur les pierres
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trĂ´ne d'or
seule
je suis las d'ĂŞtre amer et las d'ĂŞtre sage

 



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