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concrete poetry

je meurs
les jours hypocrites
je vous chante
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues
elle doit retourner, elle a dit
l'obscurité
bien que repine d'amour, et frottement de raison
il y a bien longtemps, dans le jeune clair de lune
avant le saint en bronze solennel
y a il quiconque là
j'ai vu les étoiles les plus fières
un stylo d'acier

 



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