ulric beauchesne

Burn what you worshipped, and worship what you burned.

The poet who is heading towards the cold of winter, to expose his heart, under a ray that illuminates it, a song will suffice, which the discreet echo lets be heard, for it to open with a tender gesture, at the slightest call of a touching wish,
dreaming, it's evening, the dream is sweet, you have to be silent.

Ulric Beauchesne