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gothic poetry

un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
travails de la terre
et mon nom est véridique
il aurait même sa plaisanterie
elle a éclaté le vin féroce
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré
ne vous affligez pas qu'elle plus de
j'ai vu les archangels dans mon pomme-arbre la nuit passée
je suis las d'être amer et las d'être sage
la nuit passée la pleine lune a étendu un tissu de blanc
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil

 



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