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.