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mother poem

je suis fevered
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
j'aime voler pendant quelque temps loin
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
très bien, vous libéraux
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
faites les garçons et les filles vont toujours
dites-moi moins ou dites-moi davantage
j'ai entendu le vent toute la journée
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
une brume entraînait une réduction

 



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