If beautiful   
sea ​​in its foam    
the whole world has spring moose 
that winter arranges      
 
I walk the unique tunic of my skin   
that desire caresses   
this strange trip   
just to fulfill the contract      
 
I let fade   
the face of our dead   
along the developed roots    
by these people I love   
these travelers   
at the tide   
drawn   
on the nomadism of moose      
 
The truth is royal   
she is a sister to nothing   
unique to the icy wind   
she touches the heart in her wandering      
 
Revealed on the first page   
over the years   
beckon me through the window    
goodbye from the people I love      
 
I'm looking for light in the dark of the mind   
and see the present in its rejections   
of expectations spread over the table   
among the crumbs of the feast      
 
I'm waiting for the book of the carefree   
under the lamppost of buried lives   
like a dirty window reveals fingerprints   
all around the bleeding heart   
defeat for those here   
organizing the flight of migrants     
 
Inevitable failure   
in opposition to what I hear    
sound is a lesson    
Jacques my brother on the other side   
I win to be among the losers   
like a bat nailed on 
the barn door      
 
I triumph   
in the erasure of the sacrifice   
in the plowed fields   
without cause without consequence   
I triumph over my losses   
smiling   
snapping fingers   
without speech   
without science   
but going out the back door   
left open   
where the tote burns are born 
absences      
 
So I sink   
in front of the hustle and bustle of utensils 
of the kitchen thrown against the wall   
a bowl between my fingers   
an ordinary bowl   
a bowl with its shards on the rim   
a begging bowl   
forgotten by children's play   
erasing attachment      
 
Spend time   
lulls me into illusions   
when I reach out   
at each step   
without the beautiful expression reaching      
 
You really have to look   
to approach oneself     
without conscience   
what we are   
to experience the necessary shock   
enlightening us   
so that a little more of who we are   
go there   
   ~ the crab walk      
 
Not to beleive   
not to become the image   
dare the reed of the reed bed   
to be
the bent third during dialogue   
to store your tears in the sawdust 
sketches      
 
Be alone   
like nobody   
for research to advance   
by chip hopping   
on the soldier's jacket covered in mud   
frozen by the sparkle of the shrapnel      
 
Be in joy   
without method   
do not look at what hurts   
don't think what's coming   
be the random luck of the grape shot   
to be living together   
with what comes together   
in the other   
in itself      
 
 
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