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mother poem

l'air est plein de l'aube et du ressort
je suis le vent qui hésite
substance de la lune
ils me demandent où j'ai été
comment j'aidez vers la droite le monde qui tourne mal
je sais ce que vous allez dire
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
tandis que je tenais l'écoute, discrètement sourde-muette

 



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