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cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
tristement parlant
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
peu de parc que je traverse
descendu ŕ l'aube des collines windless
prenez mes bracelets
il y a bien longtemps, dans le jeune clair de lune
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
je meurs
l'aube était vert pomme
l'obscurité roule vers le haut

 



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