Noire De Bleu
(jean-franç,ois joubert)
Between two wars my black memory of blue, returns with a sea, in this mirror without outlines, which freezes me the blood. This red tint goes out of my dreams, a crazy drama which frees its fury, taken in the heart of the urn. Silence, of two wars:oublier the shootings, the caterpillars of tanks, bloody heart. The cyan soul, all my dreams too sweet become blurred - and leave the bitter, this taste of taciturn nightmares. The war is a mirage, one oasis of stupidity, I prefer, thunderstorms and their flashes of lighting. To forget, I think that the peace exists, but in drizzle. I find hard to believe that the war essence is eternal, one of the mysteries of the human nature, which bothers me. Sad genes...
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