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c'était l'automne de l'année
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
hors de la fenêtre une mer des arbres verts
dans ma main je me tiens
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
si j'étais très sûr
vous faites ne pas entendre
doux comme lit dans la terre
j'ai vu la première poire
contre la flamme verte de l'aubépine-arbre
un stylo d'acier

 



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