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friend poem

mais alas, rêves justes
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
dans ma main je me tiens
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
nous avons aucune honte?
simplicité
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas
je n'ai jamais su que la terre a eu tellement l'or
ce que je souhaite remarquer
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
les petites prières blanches

 



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