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nature poem

il n'y avait jamais un bruit près du bois mais d'un
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
le régal royal a été fait
se reposer dans son culbuteur attendant votre thé
monde qui change sous ma main
quand absence de sa taille de montagne
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues

 



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