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footprint poem

ne restez pas plus
près d'un champ en détresse
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
en tant qu'elle
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
regarder là-bas
seule
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
avec ses cheveux flaying d'une manière extravagante
je ne brûle aucun encens
sommeil gentiment dans vos tombes humbles
homme froid sévère

 



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