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sad poem

vous a fait entendent parler jamais
en matins nuage-gris
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
comme des aigles sur la haute haute
mais alas, rêves justes
l'enfant qui a jeté la feuille après feuille
et pain de breaketh pas plus
les voûtes du pont rouge
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
je les ai entendus la nuit
les longs couloirs de marbre resounding

 



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