Des armes

Weapons, owls, shiny ones
That need to be cleaned often for pleasure
And that need to be caressed nonetheless for pleasure
The other, the one that makes the communicants dream

Blue weapons like the earth
That need to be kept warm deep in the soul
In the eyes, in the heart, in the arms of a woman
That we keep deep within like we keep a mystery

Weapons in the secret of days
Under the grass, in the sky and then in writing
That make you dream very late in readings
And put poetry in speeches

Weapons, weapons, weapons
And poets on duty at the trigger
To set fire to the last cigarettes
At the end of a French verse
Shining like a tear