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black poetry

les longs couloirs de marbre resounding
je ne prie pas pour la paix
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
ce qui était lui les moteurs dits
les jours endeared à chaque MUSE
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
je l'aime
comme je me trouve couvert dedans, examiné dedans
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
foncé-eyed

 



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