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nature poem

homme froid sévère
effrayé pas plus, je dis
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
roses et or
quand je vais de nouveau à la terre
quelle chance spiteful vole des unawares
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
vieux vin à boire
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
regarder là-bas
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée

 



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