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type of poem

treize ans toujours
je remplis cette tasse
bruits qui tâchent de déchirer
c'était l'automne de l'année
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
si j'avais su l'étroit une prison est amour
si perdu
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
je me tiens par temps gris froid

 



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