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je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
polit le dernier âge, le prochain avec espoir est vu
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
les poèts le disent
short et doux, et nous sommes arrivés à la fin de lui
se reposer dans son culbuteur attendant votre thé
j'ai dit
si j'étais très sûr
les voûtes du pont rouge
serene d'après-midi et lumineux verts
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée

 



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