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short poem

à l'aube, il a dit
je me tiens par temps gris froid
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
la noblesse de la mort encore
dites-moi
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
tous en baisse les années
un ciel qui n'a jamais connu le soleil, la lune ou les étoiles
j'aime mon heure de vent et de lumière
quand vous venez ce soir

 



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