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gothic poetry

le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
les jours endeared à chaque MUSE
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
je l'ai vu une fois avant
j'ai su le silence des étoiles et de la mer
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
nous nous étendons
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
remuez

 



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