samedi, 10 janvier 2009
GREEN ON PURPLE
Poetry has no fate
Poetry is its own fate
That nobody knows
Except the emerald smile
Burning in the heart
Of the poet
The poet has no fate
Only hazard and fortune
Rule his destiny
Whatever it looks like
It is never
What it seems to be
Or maybe it is
Among the legends
That are furniture
For the devouring fire
Of the dusty hills
Far away from here
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