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mother daughter poem

pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
dites-moi moins ou dites-moi davantage
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
simplicité
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
ceux-ci soient
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
elle doit retourner, elle a dit
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
fleur blanche de mousse, fleur rouge de flamme
écoutez
dans la terre silencieuse

 



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