Humeur...

Là

 

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Is there a life before death,

a ray of light for my breath?

My life is a wide tree of flour,

a kind of cellar touching the floor.

 

Gathering love,

we're colourless  blood,

a chill forest, down, cut,

a fingerless glove.

 

Tell me where's the bridge to Là.

You know the path to then, but, ah

time is a fool and humans arrows

through spaceless skies or just a bow?

Mercredi¬†12¬†ao√Ľt¬†2009¬†15:20

Mots-clés :

T, H, E, R, E

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