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lyric poem

je me tiens par temps gris froid
ce qui nous fera maintenant
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
nos moments plaisants volent
il n'y a aucune évasion par le fleuve
souvent je pense ŕ la belle ville
comme bougie blanche
indéfiniment
les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
dans sa tente gardée
doucement pleurant

 



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