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elements of poetry

parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
je ne brûle aucun encens
souvent je pense à la belle ville
maintenant que je me suis refroidi à vous
dites-moi pas
comme bougie blanche
un mot de vol d'ici et là
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
sommeil, frère gris de la mort

 



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