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grandmother poem

robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
les jours hypocrites
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
j'ai hérité le désert parce que mon âme est assoiffée
maintenant tandis que mes lèvres vivent
Ă  certains les gros dieux
mi plaisirs et palais bien que nous puissions errer

 



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