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gothic poetry

la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
vieux vin Ă  boire
complètement des larmes
j'ai gagné la course
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
pour venir tellement bientôt à ceci a imaginé l'obscurité
c'est l'arsenal
bonheur
très bien, vous libéraux
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville

 



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