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grandma poem

mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
glooms des vivre-chênes
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
treize ans toujours
j'ai vu la première poire
ils me demandent où j'ai été
les nuances de la nuit tombaient rapidement
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
un orage monte sur la marée

 



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