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mother poem

à minuit
tranquillement, avec le reverance, dans la crainte
avec le rouge de sang de lèvres et le coeur de la pierre
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
il n'y avait jamais un bruit près du bois mais d'un
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
ce que je souhaite remarquer
pourquoi puis, la nécessité nous voient?

 



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