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thanksgiving poetry

et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
frère, je suis le feu
dernier minuit
au-dessus du fleuve, sur la colline
je remplis cette tasse
au-dessus du fleuve ils montrent à moi
quand un contrat est fait pour la liberté
exprimons nos passions plus basses
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
en matins nuage-gris
les cieux qu'ils étaient ashen et sobre
vous êtes clair
je me demande où vous vivez

 



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