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memorial poem

course haut-soutenue
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
vous pensez, mon garçon, quand je mets mes bras autour de vous
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
ce qui était lui les moteurs dits
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
par le rivage, par la mer
quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes

 



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