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poem for pastors

sommeil, frère gris de la mort
polit le dernier âge, le prochain avec espoir est vu
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
short et doux, et nous sommes arrivés à la fin de lui
clair de lune profond et tendre
dans sa tente gardée
en septembre
du plancher au plafond
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
pharaoh, roi de la terre de l'Egypte

 



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