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thanksgiving poem

n'accrochez aucune guirlande
dans ma main je me tiens
souffleur de verre de temps
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
un mille derrière
polit le dernier âge, le prochain avec espoir est vu
ils ont jeté une pierre, vous ont jeté une pierre
la musique i entendu avec vous était plus que la musique
travails de la terre
regarder lĂ -bas
le long d'une rive
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
j'aime ma vie, mais pas trop bien

 



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