Paroles, paroles... Is there a price to words,
Or their value is indeed invented,
When scales are used to measure their worth
To give to someone as a gift or credit,
To which the weights are always other words?
Paroles, paroles... From underneath their face
A subject lurks, occasional and silent,
Escaping to the infinitive’s maze,
Abandoning the predicate’s confinement,
Confusing all superlatives in haste.
Paroles, paroles... I also live the words
But now, taking off my famous smile,
I think: do you have really any worth,
So usual, wise, eternal, versatile,
Or are you always words, but mere words?
23 September 2008
Оригинал - http://stihi.ru/2008/09/23/909
Paroles, paroles
© Copyright: Юлия Николаевна Шувалова, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108092302904
Свидетельство о публикации №108092302904
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