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sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil
elle a éclaté le vin féroce
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues
au-dessus du fleuve, sur la colline
les jours hypocrites
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
les chansons antiques

 



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