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suicide poem

bien que je sois peu en tant que toutes les petites choses
il parle pas bien
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
je la pense splendide juste
volonté vous miroitez sur la mer?
le bonbon avec la fougère et s'est levé
je sais pas oĂą
je n'ai jamais su que la terre a eu tellement l'or
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
la nuit passée la pleine lune a étendu un tissu de blanc

 



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