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funeral poem

je meurs
j'ai vu la première poire
dans sa tente gardée
jusqu'à sa fenêtre de chambre
les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
laissez-moi être triste
elle doit retourner, elle a dit
souvent je pense à la belle ville
dans la sphère
vous entendez la pluie?

 



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