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mom poem

vieux vin Ă  boire
exprimons nos passions plus basses
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
ville qui n'est pas une ville
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
passé persistant de thou
je suis vieux et aveugle
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
la lumière retirée
il était un jeune oysterman grand
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
pensées par ma tête

 



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