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footprint poem

l'air est comme un papillon
il était un jeune oysterman grand
tous en baisse les années
indéfiniment
dites-moi
pourquoi
de nos endroits cachés
s'est levé et l'ambre était le coucher du soleil sur le fleuve
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
un orage monte sur la marée
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
vous faites entendre
puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort

 



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