triolet #poetry #french
In the wee, small hours of morning,
When the moon rides the sky above.
In the silence before the day's dawning,
In the wee, small hours of morning
When I lie awake, sleepless but yawning.
I remember the emotions of great love,
In the wee, small hours of morning,
When the moon rides the sky above.
Memories are caught in the flow
Of the stream of consciousness.
They rise and fall; they ebb and flow.
Memories are caught in the flow,
Sparkle with sunlight into a warm glow.
The sad ones faded in their awefulness.
Memories are caught in the flow
Of the stream of consciousness.
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