diary

* la bonne chanson* · 15/04/2010

The noise from bars, the pavement’s mire,
Ruined sycamores leafing on black ire:
The bus, a typhoon of mud and metal,
Bouncing, between wheels, with its rattle,
Rolling its red and green eyes slowly,
Workers off to the club, pipes smoking,
Under the eyes of police, those drones,
Roofs dripping, sweating walls, damp stones,
Broken asphalt, gutters where sewers blend,
Behold, my road – with paradise at the end.




  1. muted …

    (fêtes galantes: en sourdine)


    Tanja    17/04/2010    #