It is these people that I think forever, as they are anchored into the rock of my life, a page turns, the rock fell, I have bitterness.
The old singer is dead, stiff mane, body pain, the old poet walked through the door, I remain, shortness of breath, stuck to the camera.
You, rhyming, ho watchman of conscience, you just cry like a flower that falls, was it necessary for you to die so that resonate on the air once the words censored?
Your words are my heritage rebel, your notes, the wing that carries them to my mouth. Your
France is mine, honey your pen, your revolts me slap in my indolence and rekindle the flame thy love in my veins.
I seem to hear, listening to your door, a roar of laughter, before the words empty, insipid statements, bowing to those who blew your storms, feeding your laughter, your most beautiful songs.
I still have the legacy of your thousand songs, hundreds of notes that make them a procession, companion struggles, loves, angers, disheveled poet, your voice in my ears just ease my pain. By
your words, for your songs, you've touched the finger. What? Eternity ...
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