Mathieu Bérubé - Roman-savon

L'âge d'or

je tombe
mais toujours à poings fermés
je ris jaune soleil
j'ai des bleus de ciel
tous les lendemains de veille
je veille les feux rouges
et ton drapeau blanc
tous les pieds-de-vent
je vante mon ménage de printemps
mes soldes de saison
je suis en liquidation

j'ai des airs de croque-mort
j'ai la patience de l'âge d'or
il en reste encore
une ou deux à décevoir

on vole mes oiseaux de nuit
mon soleil levant
mon sommeil couchant
je porte des humeurs latentes
j'avorte les files d'attente

je tombe
mais jamais vraiment à point
je relève les bateaux qu'on m'a monté

Credits
Writer(s): Berube Mathieu
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