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writing poetry

peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
cette année
ce qui je vous doivent
dernier minuit
mais je ne puis pas vous lire maintenant
quand j'ai regardé dans vos yeux
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
simplement parlant
ma douleur, quand elle est ici avec moi
un avec vous
à minuit
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire

 



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