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fall poem

la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
l'aube était vert pomme
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
observer toute la journée la vague bleue se courber et se casser
frère, je suis le feu
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
doux comme lit dans la terre
il y a une heure du repos paisible
et pain de breaketh pas plus
bonheur

 



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