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modern poetry

à minuit
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues
s'il
laissez le bel unsaid de mots
doucement pleurant
ce qui était lui les moteurs dits
si je meurs, pensez seulement ceci à moi
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver

 



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