

« Quand un salon littéraire devient
un boudoir pour dames »





Frameless heads on nameless walls,
with eyes that watch the world and can't forget,
Like the strangers that you 've met
The ragged ment in ragged clothes,
the silver thorn, a bloody rose
lie crushed and brokern on the virgin snow.
Now I think I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They wouldn't listen,
they're not listening still,
Perhaps they never will...
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