Poésie - Poetry 3/8 |
Traduit en anglais par Google - Translated in english by Google | |
Tout
se mange froid
Figer
ses réflexions dans un aspic, Un
vrai acrobate sait enjamber le présent Pour
les disciples du temps, Mangeons
nos secondes sans dessert.
C’est le salaire des bons à rien. On digère l’espoir d’être rassasiés. |
Everything is eaten cold Freeze his thoughts in an asp, like gelatin encompassed the world. The fate of food stuffs cooled. A real acrobat knows span this to escape by joining the future. Voyager lost in thought in the forefront. For followers of time the 9 to 5 reigns supreme. The clock we swallow anyway. Seconds without eating our dessert. This is the salary good for nothing. It digests the hope of being filled. |