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death poetry

bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
les jours endeared chaque MUSE
je suis vieux et aveugle
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
l'aube tait vert pomme
vous vous rappelez
beau
une pense gentiment solennelle
hors du profond et de l'obscurit
peu de parc que je traverse
je me suis tenu
par le rivage, par la mer

 



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