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child poem

il est venu me prendre par la main
en matins nuage-gris
beaux, tragical visages
comme égaliser tombe
tous ces trésors qui se trouvent
je suis le vent qui hésite
l'obscurité
faible-envolée est la chanson
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
j'ai gagné la course
a arqué l'inondation
je ne puis pas toujours sentir son greatness

 



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