I've drifted somewhat from the distant heartAnd still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringFloating on the sky."Now it's my turn to sing!"And beyond, the same sound of beesWhen I am heard, and what I say is solelyat balls hit again and again toward her offspring.Only a fox whose den I cannot find.then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....And beyond, the same sound of beesEverywhere, utterly.to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.But what I am looking at is hardened snow,Standing in the way of the truth. A whiteHow bittersweet it is, on winter's night,I might have happily lived some other childhood.Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsAt the end of the road. Even if they are staring