Axelle

"I, like the heat;

pass your's past mine.

They, will want the key:


Armies are galloping by,

from door to door,

recruiting more.


And to enact the heat

(*Pass your's past mine*),

they, will need the key.


(But maybe not to be,

maybe just to see?)

Will they ever leave,


the countryside,

where Axelle died,

just riding her bike?


And will they beguile,

the lightest wind,

to carry missiles?"


"Well, however many a rival,

we will be sat arched, over spent bicycles,

in flames, still cycling for miles;

We were shaped by Axelle's sweet smile."