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funeral poem

le long des banques
je remplis cette tasse
sous ma fenêtre dans une rue de ville
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
l'aube était vert pomme
ils dans le rassemblement d'obscurité et demandent
l'air est comme un papillon
j'aime ma vie, mais pas trop bien
vous êtes clair

 



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