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autumn poem

parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
doucement maintenant la lumière du jour
substance de la lune
un avec vous
ce que je souhaite remarquer
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort
soyez dans moi comme modes éternels
les petites prières blanches
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré
vieux vin à boire
tristement parlant
du plancher au plafond

 



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