Cet amour-là

"Elle dit: non, ne pleurez pas, ce n'est pas triste, en rien, en aucun cas. Il s'agit de vous et de pas vous, oubliez votre personne, ça n'a aucune importance. Il ne faut pas se prendre pour un héros. Vous êtes rien. C'est ce qui me plaît. Restez comme ça. Ne changez pas. Restez. On va lire ensemble."

Yann Andréa

A hundred and one cold nights

And I picked on the whims of a thousand or more, Still pursuing the path that's been buried for years, All the dead wood from jungles and cities on fire, Can't replace or relate, can't release or repair, Take my hand and I'll show you what was and will be.

When winter night falls like that
Cold ice in my brain
Stiff muscles and metal like body
Heart sharp broken

crying in winter is the worst thing on earth
burning tears tearing your eyes apart
drawing painful paths down your red white cheeks
the neverending fountain that is
both abundant and dry
and the sound is muffled and the
pain is great

When the body expresses the pain and suffering it gets all warm
The ice cold heart sharp
Melts as do
The remains of your humanity

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