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death poem

quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes
dans le port de New York
j'aime voler pendant quelque temps loin
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
vous faites ne pas entendre
une brume entraînait une réduction

 



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