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prose poetry

il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
l'aube était vert pomme
l'air est comme un papillon
j'ai vu avec les yeux ouverts
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trĂ´ne d'or
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
il y avait un temps en anciennes années

 



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