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footprint poem

le ciel
vieux vin à boire
écoutez
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
quand les heures du jour sont numérotées
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
dernier minuit
splendor doux
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
tristement parlant
vécu à côté de la rive
comme des aigles sur la haute haute

 



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