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kid poem

mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
laissez le bel unsaid de mots
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
là où je trouvez-vous
les vieilles chansons
maintenant tandis que mes lèvres vivent
comme un homme nu je vont
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
apportez-moi la chanson douce
mais je ne puis pas vous lire maintenant

 



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