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type of poetry

tristes sont ils qui savent pas l'amour
dites-moi pas
près d'un champ en détresse
il est allé
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
le maître des destins humains suis moi
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
le ciel
leurs beaux cheveux
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
l'amour a été chanté mille manières
un dieu

 



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