Quelquefois Il y a vieux.
This past.
Il n'ya pas sympa.
That forsaken past.
C'est la vie.
It is torn between two crevices, hewn out of everything false that the jury has imagined.
Ce n'est pas joli, exactly as planned.
It is calculated and tempered and examined, and it doesn't fit and it always will and won't.
No comments:
Post a Comment