Morning poet, clever, salty, slippery, basket Evening poet, of hopes, disappointments, without glory In the infernal maze of gray alleys The poet seeks his path, naked under his shirt The body is lacerated, larded, without history Laughter exults, anger rumbles, the gesture Troubled, seeks the curve, the fracture Thought gets lost, disintegrates, piles up, rushes Finds itself, expands, hurries, almost pure The idea of beauty, truth, falsehood, ugliness Nothing makes sense, there is no longer any evidence Neither the reverse, nor the inverse, nor the downpour in the morning in Anvers Passersby pass, pass, pass It's their job, instrument maker, employee, worker, saddler I watch them, it's my job, sorting, stacking, tidying, Are the madmen crazy to bind, to untie, to reconnect? ------------------------------------------------------ These lyrics are written and owned by Fo’ÆsP / L’Homme De Bouts. https://suno.com/l-homme-de-bouts@tollig Please do not copy, share, or adapt them without permission. Thank you for respecting the creator’s work. Lyrics Creation: © 2025 l-homme-de-bouts Music Arrangement: © 2025 l-homme-de-bouts Copyright © 2025 @l-homme-de-bouts All rights reserved. ---------------------------------------------------------
