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footprint poem

nous qui se sont tenus
bruits qui tâchent de déchirer
ville qui n'est pas une ville
une vie sur la vague d'océan
elle doit retourner, elle a dit
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
dans le port de New York
il n'y a aucune bande, toutefois observé et tendu

 



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