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christian poem

mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
allé avant nous
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
je vous ai détesté
laissez-moi être triste
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
orage
avant le saint en bronze solennel

 



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