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kid poem

juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
mélancolie, bleu il était
le maître des destins humains suis moi
hors de la fenêtre une mer des arbres verts
doux comme lit dans la terre
chère épouse
les jours mélancoliques sont venus
il n'y a aucune évasion par le fleuve
substance de la lune
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
les poèts le disent
qui aime la pluie
maintenant pour un combat vif et gai
dites-moi moins ou dites-moi davantage

 



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