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african american poetry

le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
pensées par ma tête
quand le voile des yeux est soulevé
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
en tant qu'elle
il y avait de trois dans le pré par le ruisseau
souvent je pense Ă  la belle ville
bien que je sois peu en tant que toutes les petites choses
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
ces yeux noirs i une fois ainsi félicité

 



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