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poem

donc je ne puis pas
souffleur de verre de temps
en ce moment
éliminer, luttant vainly
short et doux, et nous sommes arrivés à la fin de lui
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
un orage monte sur la marée
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
en dessous de cette tombe modeste un conqueror se trouve
je sais ce que vous allez dire

 



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