An englishman in Paris

lundi, mars 27, 2006

Funeral Blues


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent he dog from barking with a juicy bone.

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin,
let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message:

He Is Dead.


Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves. Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;


I thought that love would last for ever:
I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The current mood of damiel at www.imood.com
damiel0000@yahoo.fr

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