Press Poem by Pierre Rausch

The awkward being
Their plans were soon made
That shall be the last we shall share
They did not adress each other
It was thud that I had gradually
grown up
The well being of a man
And make it up again
Well found
Truth to tell
The trace left in just press
Pictures of these immense presses
Alliance to a corner plantation
They did not adress each other
What is there against
With one foot to the republic
Exhausted with fatigue
A grey of principle press
Found themselves in a wide
entrance
They found themselves in the spot
I came from the end of a bag
It was mignight, it was fresh air
But she did not look at herself
To give to what she now felt