c'est l'heure
où je m'entends le mieux avec les bémols
encastrés dans la brume
c'est l'heure
où on ne voit que l'épaule grise du son
lourd de lenteur
son grave plus grave
devant disparaître
ovale, se consume l'heure
imparfaite
glissant de bémol en bémol
He was looking at a sunny window. He didn’t know what a window was. He thought it was a door and walked out. Time has stopped. Even if he had some notions about flying, he kept his wings in the pockets, and fell down. Now, the window he looked at is covered with a velvet curtain and his chair is moved facing the wall.
sometimes we wander for days
inside the ruins of myself
like an old ragtag band
the gardens where white boats still float upside down
in the clouds of your eyes
we dig for the last broken piece of your heart
in the magical town
in the beautiful mines
only to get lost and discover the ruby
was stolen in another century
by another indiana jones
I guess in the end I have learned to accept
to come back
with just only a handful of shards
and your smile
in my old ruined shack
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