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thanksgiving poetry

ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
comme des aigles sur la haute haute
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
ne soyez pas faux
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
oranges de plumaison nubian bleu-noires

 



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