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narrative poetry

l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
dans des nombres mournful
il y a mille années silencieuses
dépassement par les murs blottis et laids
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
là par la fenêtre dans la vieille maison
dans ma main je me tiens
j'ai aimé une femme
je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
les voûtes du pont rouge

 



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