At always a rise, at midday;
Even at my mother-fall
The pendulum swings on every side anew
The bell rings in and out; finally, a timbre,
And messages to the messagers.
Sometimes sweet as caramel,
Sometimes sour and sore indeed,
In flesh, blood and bone
... seems to be a good debt.
Well, return, you the rain,
Sleep in peace, dear sun,
Halt being a thorn in its flesh.
Come here and come home.
It' s Angelus time.
Please, listen to the silent orations of our androids,
The fool of our hearts,
The anecdotes of our dear illusionists,
Who seem to be...
Often in white and wings
Wide, wild and whirled indeed.
« return.