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life poem

les jours mélancoliques sont venus
treize ans toujours
l'enfant qui a jeté la feuille après feuille
avec le coucher du soleil
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
il parle pas bien
dans les halls du sommeil vous avez erré près
vous entendez la pluie?
les jours hypocrites

 



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