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pumpkin poem

ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
le long des banques
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
laissez le bel unsaid de mots
mais alas, rêves justes
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
à l'amoureux passionné
treize ans toujours
je sais pas où
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré

 



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