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angel poem

robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
maintenant que je me suis refroidi Ă  vous
vous ĂŞtes clair
exprimons nos passions plus basses
je me tiens par temps gris froid
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
dans les halls du sommeil vous avez erré près
avec les yeux doux et bruns
c'était l'automne de l'année
souvent je pense Ă  la belle ville
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir

 



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