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baby poem

son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
doux comme lit dans la terre
deux rangées des choux
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
l'amour a été chanté mille manières
tressé et tissé
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
le maître des destins humains suis moi
qui aime la pluie
j'ai gagné la course

 



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