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black poetry

glooms des vivre-chênes
il aurait même sa plaisanterie
hors de la mer de scintillement
passé persistant de thou
ce qui nous fera maintenant
je la pense splendide juste
vieux vin à boire
je fais ma monture, mais personne ne sait
les poèts le disent
l'air est comme un papillon
substance de la lune

 



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