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death poem

il est vrai que vous disiez que les dieux sont plus d'utilisation à vous que des fées
je suis le vent qui hésite
les vieilles chansons
j'ai jeté mon âme à l'air comme un vol de faucon
quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes
course haut-soutenue
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
faible-envolée est la chanson
si perdu
foncé-eyed

 



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