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baby poem

voyez, ils retournent
les bateaux se situent dans le compartiment
filles de temps
je ne brûle aucun encens
les vieilles chansons
faible-envolée est la chanson
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
du plancher au plafond
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
il n'y a aucune bande, toutefois observé et tendu
l'obscurité
j'ai moulé le monde
comme lui Ă  qui esprit dans la flamme du midi

 



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