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concrete poetry

la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
il n'y a aucune bande, toutefois observé et tendu
il y a une heure du repos paisible
je suis le vent qui hésite
les longs couloirs de marbre resounding
quelques jours plus venteux
quand j'ai regardé dans vos yeux
dites-moi pas
la musique i entendu avec vous était plus que la musique

 



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