Text: Louis Aragon
Year: 1961
We stay up, we think about everything, about nothing
We write verses, prose
We have to fiddle something about
while waiting for the day that is coming
The mist when the morning breaks
Takes away from the windows their breath
It was like that when Verlaine
Here slowly passed away
Several are dead, several alive
We do not all have the same cards
Before the other I have to go
Them out I remained dreaming
Not everybody is Cézanne
We will content ourselves with little
We cry and we laugh as we can
In that herbal tea universe
"Young man what do you fear
You will grow old somehow"
Was saying the shadow on the high wall
Painted by a Breughel of fairground
We stay up, we think about everything, about nothing
We write verses, prose
We have to fiddle something about
while waiting for the day that is coming
We stay up, we think about everything, about nothing
We write verses, prose
We have to fiddle something about
while waiting for the day that is coming
All poems written by Louis Aragon
No comments:
Post a Comment