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angel poem

il est allé
se reposer dans son culbuteur attendant votre thé
ces yeux noirs i une fois ainsi félicité
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
course haut-soutenue
tressé et tissé
l'air est comme un papillon
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière
ils peuvent parler de l'amour dans une petite maison
et pain de breaketh pas plus
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
apportez-moi la chanson douce


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