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christmas poem

je me tiens par temps gris froid
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
sous la lune de moisson
là par la fenêtre dans la vieille maison
se reposer dans son culbuteur attendant votre thé
très bien, vous libéraux
hors de la fenêtre une mer des arbres verts
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
volonté vous miroitez sur la mer?

 



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