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mother poem

souvent je pense à la belle ville
faites les garçons et les filles vont toujours
qui aime la pluie
avec les yeux doux et bruns
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
sous la lune de moisson
je descends les chemins de jardin
mais alas, rêves justes
avant le saint en bronze solennel
ces coeurs ont été tissés des joies et des soins humains
éliminer, luttant vainly
ombres étendues le long de broadway
quand je vais de nouveau à la terre

 



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