Bleu Amorphe
Et je chantonne des histoires anciennes  Sous la pluie diluvienne Au beau milieu du village, De tout en haut de mon jeune âge J'ai déjà perdu la tête Et mon esprit le fête Au sommet du dépit que m'a posé la vie, Revoilà les miracles !  Après ma misérable débâcle  Qui clôtura le spectacle haï  De ma maigre mascarade, Cette envie de vivre Comme seule et unique camarade Voilà qu'elle me rend ivre !  Et je m'écroule comme la ruine que je suis Emportant avec moi les souvenirs du cerisier et ses fruits Dévoré par la peste et les malheurs  Dont le tronc pourri ne pouvait porter les pleurs Bleu Amorphe.  
2020-10-12 20:23:33
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Nanala
En un mot comme en cent : la déchéance d'une personne qui a eu affaire à ses propres illusions.
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2020-10-27 13:57:13
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