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african american poetry

mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
nos moments plaisants volent
j'aime mon heure de vent et de lumière
je meurs
il y a un pays complètement de vin
il n'y a aucune bande, toutefois observé et tendu
deux rangées des choux

 



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