
There, I would fall asleep
like on a feather bed
there would be fresh air
sweeping away the bitterness
and also the worries, they
would disappear in the mist
what we do on Sundays
belongs to us, only,
and what we see through the branches
will stay between us
At the end of the path, underground thoughts, casting a wide net in order not to miss anything. The basket of ideas is empty, but there are still some strategic crumbs to hold on until the next election.
*posted in July 2019, reviewed in July 2020
Au bout du sentier, des pensées souterraines, ratisser large pour ne rien manquer. Il ne reste plus rien dans le panier aux idées, que des miettes stratégiques pour tenir bon jusqu’aux prochaines élections.