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suicide poem

bien que je sois peu en tant que toutes les petites choses
améliorez que le granit
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
vieux vin à boire
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
il n'y a aucune évasion par le fleuve
de nos endroits cachés
il est venu me prendre par la main

 



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