You don't read, why should I write? Who's that "I" anyway?

*I'll be there
As soon as I can
But I'm busy
Mending broken
Pieces of the life
I had before*

Besoin d'y réfléchir. Je me suis perdue quelque part. Objets trouvés.

O Rose, thou art sick,
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

The Sick Rose, Blake.

Comments

[sandra]

ah la poésie anglaise..