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autumn poem

en matins nuage-gris
il y a une heure du repos paisible
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
short et doux, et nous sommes arrivés à la fin de lui
la noblesse de la mort encore
dernier minuit
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
je la pense splendide juste
en dessous de cette tombe modeste un conqueror se trouve
je suis las d'être amer et las d'être sage
j'ai entendu le vent toute la journée
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré

 



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