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mother daughter poem

beaux, tragical visages
quand les heures du jour sont numérotées
nous n'étions pas beaucoup
je ne prie pas pour la paix
vous pensez, mon garçon, quand je mets mes bras autour de vous
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
bien que repine d'amour, et frottement de raison

 



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