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poetry poem

aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
là par la fenêtre dans la vieille maison
laissez-moi se déplacer lentement par la rue
bas! 'tis par nuit de gala
les jours mélancoliques sont venus
il y a trois ans d'aujourd'hui
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
vous êtes beau et fané
le pré rampait
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent

 



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