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writing poetry

je me tiens par temps gris froid
sous ma fenêtre dans une rue de ville
la noblesse de la mort encore
une vie sur la vague d'océan
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
les ombres des bateaux
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas
tandis que je tenais l'écoute, discrètement sourde-muette
les longs couloirs de marbre resounding

 



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