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sad death poem

un oiseau a chanté
ce qui je vous doivent
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
c'est l'arsenal
chère épouse
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
allés sont les trois, ces soeurs rares
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
treize ans toujours
sous la barre du guerrier
vous faites ne pas entendre
nous qui se sont tenus
frère, je suis le feu


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