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friend poem

il parle pas bien
levé des morts
bruits qui tâchent de déchirer
c'est l'arsenal
je descends les chemins de jardin
un oiseau a chanté
très bien, vous libéraux
orage
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
de nos endroits cachés
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
l'obscurité
vous vous rappelez
et pain de breaketh pas plus

 



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