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pumpkin poem

le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
aimez-moi enfin, ou si vous pas
le vieil ouest, le vieux temps
laissez-moi se déplacer lentement par la rue
l'obscurité roule vers le haut
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
mais alas, rêves justes

 



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