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The fairground ^ ^ GILBERT CZULY
When the fairgrounds arrive on the market
square With caravans full of wooden horses and lotteries
People gather in all this noise as bewitched,
From children to adults, by this phantasmagoria.
The fairgrounds of distant countries with beautiful caravans
Come for a few days to sow stars
Which, with the joyful eyes of the toddlers, then emanate
Then thrown on fathers and mothers like unforgettable sails.
Everyone is then working to ensure that the event
Which once a year happens,
Gathers in such a short time an
entire people so haunted by oblivion.
Costumes and shimmering
dresses will turn grey with noisy calls
To try to take under the
useless tents plush, trifles and Discover More honeys.
But the innocent turn on bicycles,
fire trucks, flashing cars.
In the smell of French fries, waffles, syrups
For a pompom with hesitant hands.
When the bumper cars have filled
up with hazardous hands and emptied their wallets,
the fake stars and their friendly minions will
withdraw their disenchanted merry-go-round for another year.
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