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love poetry

ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
écoutez
y a il quiconque là
les longs couloirs de marbre resounding
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
pour moi étais un conseiller décharné et grave
dernier minuit
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
l'aube était vert pomme
donc je ne puis pas

 



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