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I am the yoyo of the duchess,
I am the yoyo of the duchess,
I come and go to the rhythm of her hand.
I wobble and turn without tomorrow.
Sometimes in his palm, sublime amuses me.
Sometimes on the ground, it damages and wears me out.
When I leave slowly, the rope is tightened.
Then I roll tirelessly, the string awaits me.
I can't drive along the way.
I'm attached to the finger of his hand.
When it takes her to Play a little,
she throws me into the wind by whistling her wishes.
So I jump like an acrobat,
I do my dance to her without her fussing.
Once she's happy, she gives up.
On the varnished floor, on the icy floor.
It's one Turn after Turn that it slowly lifts me up.
And stop the day, it's the night now.
Only from my drawer, I am gently tidied up.
Out of sight and away from other playing hands.
I turn randomly to the tealight candles.
But no lanterns, the drawer is closed.
I'll feel sorry for myself while I wait for the survey.
May his duchess regain the desire to Play
with her yo-yo quietly locked up.
Waiting for the desire of a hungry hand.
By Steve Delcourte
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