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black poetry

avec la joie et la merveille
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
je ne brûle aucun encens
ils me demandent où j'ai été
je ne prie pas pour la paix
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
les montagnes ils sont les gens silencieux
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
les jours hypocrites

 



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