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grandmother poem

c'était l'automne de l'année
avant le saint en bronze solennel
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
je me suis tenu
l'air est comme un papillon
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
par le pont grossier
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
remplacez la vision du plaisir
les bateaux se situent dans le compartiment
ce compagnon étrange est venu sur brouiller des pieds

 



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