All Are An Instruments Poem by Edmond Rand

Peaceless guitar, left its hearts in my tomb of memory.
Sing with unopened mouth and language of my animal.
Which will be translated in thy poem yet begin,
Descendants of my reality, which I listen
A! sweeping of a child upon his mother sleeping,
And look for a silence, stop up his ear, listen!
A million of blind horses, runn quickly pescecuted him from far away
In the room of light, open my silent room and see nothing
Expect one young man in writing his new poem.
Evening of my ancestors..

Violin, king of secrets of silence, hurt without blood,
Greet all conquered youth, but mine eye want
It wants to tomb, in waiting the new morning
Hypocrite no more,
Green violin of uncaring, borrow my ground?
Which all grasses and bushes keep their soft bones.
There is no longer, nothing, may awake her remembrance,
She gave me all,
Chorister flowers.

Edmond rand 24 December 2017