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retirement poem

fait longtemps polir la lumière du soleil d'été
près d'un champ en détresse
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
je ne prie pas pour la paix
dans ma main je me tiens
en septembre
comme un homme nu je vont
il parle pas bien
beaux, tragical visages

 



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