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suicide poetry

dans votre vol
c'est l'arsenal
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
ils peuvent parler de l'amour dans une petite maison
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
il y a d'un que ce I par le passé a aimé tellement
elle connaît un dégagement bon marché
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer

 



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