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poem

ce qui je vous doivent
y a il quiconque là
j'ai vu que vous hunched et tremblant sur les pierres
un avec vous
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
quand le vent fonctionne contre nous dans l'obscurité
et mon nom est véridique
en septembre
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
basculé dans le berceau du profond
les jours hypocrites

 



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