I dream of living in a hamlet of hovels

(Homage to Hieronymus Bosch)

I dream of living in a hamlet of hovels
piled up. One part of the other,
With narrow streets and dark little stores.
In the center of a square,
a noisy market,
Just beyond the walls,
A pier that smells like a river,
dozens of small boats,
And fish laid out to dry.

In the evening, it is always cold
Where I often dream of dwelling.
You stay inside the inns,
Drinking beer for not understanding.
Tired people run from the frost to the burning fireplace,
Or in a bed that is itself a world.
Alone or in company, inside huddled hovels,
There is no longer any talk of love or hope.

Not far from the walls,
a river going eastward
Cleans up all the dreams,
net the streets and the market square.
And the next day, new beer will be tapped.
And new fire next to the bed,
It will burn air,
It’s too terse to sleep, too….

I dream of observing the cold,
And between tiny little streets,
let unbridled my immense

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