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suicide poetry

l'obscurité vole les formes de toutes les reines
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
nous n'étions pas beaucoup
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
comme un homme nu je vont
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
hors de la mer de scintillement

 



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