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mother poem

robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
le bonbon avec la fougère et s'est levé
elle a dit
je ne puis pas toujours sentir son greatness
les voûtes du pont rouge
dans votre vol
comme je me trouve couvert dedans, examiné dedans
il y avait de trois dans le pré par le ruisseau
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
je meurs

 



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