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christian poetry

ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
il parle pas bien
le pré rampait
vous pensez, mon garçon, quand je mets mes bras autour de vous
l'air est plein de l'aube et du ressort
course haut-soutenue
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
tandis que je tenais l'écoute, discrètement sourde-muette
j'étais une déesse avant que le marbre m'ait trouvé
soyez dans moi comme modes éternels
les vieilles chansons

 



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