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pumpkin poem

je vous chante
je ne brûle aucun encens
les jours hypocrites
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
je n'ai jamais su que la terre a eu tellement l'or
elle a éclaté le vin féroce
il y a une heure du repos paisible

 



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