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short love poem

pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
en matins nuage-gris
pensées par ma tête
si j'étais très sûr
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
jusqu'à sa fenêtre de chambre
jamais dans toute ma vie
qui appellera le vent
le maître des destins humains suis moi
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
les voûtes du pont rouge
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
je suis le vent qui hésite

 



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