My shadow grabs the view
Of a ruinous and drunken sun
It is winter in this street
Near the garden, under the frost

Yesterday, the idylls took advantage
Of the complicity of the underground
Of the fires that the sun was looking at,
There remains a sign riddled with hands

The dark chalk of the rain
Erased all the A4 cries
And trapped a graffiti artist who came here
To sanctify the plaster wave

The tasks of time for arbiters
Of his call to revolt
A superman shouts on all the windows
His casual ferocity

The panes slowly become iridescent,
The neon lights burn with unconsciousness
The street stumbles under the awnings
The fruits rot in the iceboxes

And the molasses of time
Squirts in bastard traces
On the repulsive bodies
Of our churches hearse

The nylon of silent streets,
Strangles the necklace of light,
Of Paris, unfaithful and rainy,
The city suffocates but remains proud

Scarves in fake and golden towers
Urbanity vomited on the sidewalk,
A saleswoman with a swollen face,
Overloaded by despair

Facing her Cluny tintinnabule
Under the drops, a junkie surrounds
A garden that the misery acculetes
And his wet cup is cardboard

Are all the pigeons dead?
No bomb fell,
My song is an amphora
To the future to find it