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concrete poetry

le plus triste de l'année
ma mčre me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
laissez-moi se déplacer lentement par la rue
les ombres des bateaux
ami, dont le sourire est venu pour ętre
la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
vous entendez la pluie?

 



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