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footprint poem

nous n'étions pas beaucoup
le long d'une rive
je réside à la montagne de table
quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes
j'ai vu la première poire
je suis le vent qui hésite
hors du profond et de l'obscurité
quand je vais de nouveau à la terre
elle a éclaté le vin féroce
frère, je suis le feu
il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus


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