That Mam goz part wallow in the ground And we
marri here with our hands hanging
Hens are concerned, which will deal with it?
And the brother a little crazy, that will comfort him? The
old, she should laugh, there with the ankou
In fatal tavern scented with soot ash
our miseries which ignite our hatreds
Recluse has always been in these villages sad
It has been thirteen , well vile apostles
Phantom of crosses, in the rain battered
The father no longer speaks for the empty house
And women are rare in our ancient homelands.
Earlier in the rain, we will go to the cemetery Walking behind the Bastard
attired in his cassock.
In the puddles of mud, our shoes bow
Afford pace with the insignia convoy.
Loïc Lemeur
Pascale
photo: mcf
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