Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.

young death sits in a cafe

smiling, a pierce of money held between

his thumb and first finger

(i say “will he buy flowers” to you

and “Death is young

life wears velour trousers

life totters, life has a beard” i

say to you who are silent.–“Do you see

Life? he is there and here,

or that, or this

or nothing or an old man 3 thirds

asleep, on his head

flowers, always crying

to nobody something about les

roses les bluets

yes,

will He buy?

Les belles bottes–oh hear

, pas cheres”)

and my love slowly answered I think so. But

I think I see someone else