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teen poem

sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
substance de la lune
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
jusqu'à sa fenêtre de chambre
ville qui n'est pas une ville
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre

 



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