Like something out of a watercolor
dreamed up by a maid painter .
These gardens of nowhere
in an afterlife just around the corner..
And I ask myself :
\"Is there still hope somewhere
for a garden of voluptuousness ? \'\'
Gardens falling asleep in the biterness
of an old age made up of so many childhood ...
No more blondes coming to eat cherries
in these gardens that shiver
like cemeteries in summer .
French,english or from Babylon ,
gardens of beginning and end ,
shadows are always cold
and ask for the warmth of the living...
A few notes of old jazz in the night
a few drops of gin before heading off
into infinity ..
The dead invent lives in moonlit gardens
but they\'re just rain pearls in an empty glass.
I went in search of the little prince ,
but I think h\'es lost in a desert ,
looking for a sheep ...
Or so unhappy in a garden of roses all alike .
And I ask myself :
\" Is there still somewhere a desire to surrender
to the sweetness of a winter garden ? \'\'