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sad poetry

tristement parlant
si j'étais très sûr
je suis le vent qui hésite
ces yeux noirs i une fois ainsi félicité
vous êtes beau et fané
je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
doux comme lit dans la terre
comme un homme nu je vont
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
le soleil est vers le haut
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
y a il quiconque là
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent

 



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