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black poetry

pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
j'ai dit
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
ne tournez pas votre tête
je suis allé à travers les rues
l'obscurité roule vers le haut
nous qui se sont tenus
si perdu
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte

 



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