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friend poetry

mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
je vous attends
quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes
voici se trouver une dame la plus belle
fleurs des bébés
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
l'obscurité vole les formes de toutes les reines
calme en tant que que deuxième été

 



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