Poésie pour le temps courant / Poetry for Current Times

End of Summer

End of summer breaks their heart
They fall down like the drunken birds
They used to be in their childhood
All the lonely weekends
All the Sunday blues
It starts without a starting
It starts without a clue

The carpet endless they play their duty
Without a whisper in the room
The closets were full of treasures
Despite the evening gloom
All the summers end
All the summers blue
There’s too much colours on the blanket
There’s too many memories to be told

Summers are made to an end
And reminds us the only tales
Are made with the matter of language
Are made to be lonely told