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son poem

son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
je réside à la montagne de table
quelques jours plus venteux
il n'y a aucune évasion par le fleuve
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
nous avons aucune honte?
vous êtes beau et fané

 



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