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elements of poetry

il y a une heure du repos paisible
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
maintenant tandis que mes lèvres vivent
les voûtes du pont rouge
à l'aube, il a dit
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré
comme je me trouve couvert dedans, examiné dedans
à partir du sud à la coupure du jour
sous la lune de moisson

 



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