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short poem

pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
dans la sphère
en tant qu'elle
j'aime voler pendant quelque temps loin
un regard est mais un rayon
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
comme un homme nu je vont
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
souvent je pense à la belle ville
parmi les montagnes j'ai erré

 



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