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8 octobre 2008 3 08 /10 /octobre /2008 09:53

  

 

Sour voices of my soul blowing wind
Cry in the morning shade, song of her
With this tall tinny insect lost in mind
Innocent rise bud of colored flower

White chalk inlaid by wrong and false words
Fairy tales drawn like a talk in the dark night
My feelings are scared by a glittering sword
From a past nightmare revealed in a fight

That song sung in the fog of the dreams
Gives a sense to the fling honey bees
Moon lights dance golden fish in a stream
Macaw painted by a brush without fees

Remains in me the smell of grass mowed
Like a strange animal soaked with life
Going up on that way so crowded
With a love evidence to be rife




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