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friend poem

ville qui n'est pas une ville
contre la flamme verte de l'aubépine-arbre
les poèts le disent
dans la sphère
je me tiens par temps gris froid
j'ai moulé le monde
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
dans ma main je me tiens

 



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