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child poem

à minuit
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
je remplis cette tasse
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
il y avait un temps en anciennes années
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
j'aime les vieilles configurations melodious
tristes sont ils qui savent pas l'amour
en ce moment


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