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funeral poem

dites-moi
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
ne tournez pas votre tęte
mais alas, ręves justes
doux et fort
ces yeux noirs i une fois ainsi félicité
vous ętes clair
bruits qui tâchent de déchirer
tranquillement, avec le reverance, dans la crainte
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
en matins nuage-gris
j'ai moulé le monde

 



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