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modern poetry

mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
si j'avais su l'étroit une prison est amour
sous la lune de moisson
simplicité
nos moments plaisants volent
hors de la mer de scintillement

 



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