Boredom

Infinite as gouts on a leaf which bends. I want to speak to you here about a place where my steps drove me. The reflections of a lake under the lapping. The shady and made tasteless image. Of this present in wood upon the arrival of the night. The flowers which grow tired, water down in the rain. The wind become quiet and quietened down. I walk between trees to the darkened trunks. Stiff shadows in the mausoleum of reverdi spring. Drag lazy persons the shadows of an anxiety bruised. In the heavy silence of a sky which darkens. The decay of my boredom splits then. I could find one ounce of poetry there. Soft borrow of melancholy. Looking for the torpor and for the innocence of a sleepy soul. Evaporating in the fog which thickens. I shall call for help you so that you bring me in back to life. Offering you in exchange the taste of forbidden fruits. Before you will have read the text where it is written. That our steps walk on the tracks of our nostalgia. The time when we lived between the walls of a paradise. Vague memory of which it stays today. That an infinite boredom erasing the sheet leaf which bends. The heavyweight of the tears of our rains. One by one the made limp gouts. Pass in the hourglass of made tasteless time. You and I, metronomes of our inaboutis moments. There, goes my idea of us, a fancy of the mind. This evening through the fog night and. Between the trees where is languishing. This desire, this desire, this infinity. To kill my boredom in the brightness of your face which laughs.