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father poem

vieux vin à boire
dans le port de New York
sommeil gentiment dans vos tombes humbles
avec le rouge de sang de lèvres et le coeur de la pierre
un, comme part d'un arbre
je descends les chemins de jardin
de nos endroits cachés
donc je ne puis pas
fait longtemps polir la lumière du soleil d'été
un dieu
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler

 



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