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sad poetry

il parle pas bien
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
doucement pleurant
je n'ai jamais su que la terre a eu tellement l'or
pourquoi puis, la nécessité nous voient?
ils ont jeté une pierre, vous ont jeté une pierre
je ne brûle aucun encens
dans l'obscurité et la paix de mon lit final
l'aube était vert pomme

 



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