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family poetry

et pain de breaketh pas plus
calme en tant que que deuxième été
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
polit le dernier âge, le prochain avec espoir est vu
je suis vieux et aveugle
je suis une femme
au-dessus du fleuve ils montrent à moi
je me suis tenu
comment j'aidez vers la droite le monde qui tourne mal
un orage monte sur la marée
la noblesse de la mort encore
simplement parlant
les petites prières blanches

 



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