Today the sun
Gnawed away by despair
With the wind rushing through
I’m like an empty house
and now, this great fear of death.
What a day.
Ashen, pale and alone.
What about women parachutists?
Dying for nothing.
and pitch-black.
Two months of chemotherapy
Their bodies are playthings,
and sent postcards saying,
Cancer.
Spring ended yesterday.
Beauty wasted
I saw a man piercing his arm.
I feel dreadful.
Is a lovely song.
But I never tire of hearing it
My sands slip away
the old days, our old hopes, our laughs.
Bardot Blvd., Aznavour Ave.
My thoughts were elsewhere.
My belly.
Is your illness.
Commander Robin,
Invaded by the sea
The azure of my daring eyes
has lasted two weeks.
I’m frightened
of love for a woman.
Everyone longs to taste
My disease is phone calls
They love by halves.
Subtitle Poetry 