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baby poem

treize ans toujours
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
les vieilles chansons
dans des nombres mournful
doux comme lit dans la terre
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement
près d'un champ en détresse
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
beau
dans le port de New York

 



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