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math poem

le bonbon avec la fougère et s'est levé
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
tous en baisse les années
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
je suis vieux et aveugle
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
la lumière retirée
quand les heures du jour sont numérotées

 



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