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friend poetry

dans le port de New York
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
simplicité
un orage monte sur la marée
j'étais une déesse avant que le marbre m'ait trouvé
un mille derrière
dépassement par les murs blottis et laids
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
souvent je pense à la belle ville
je vous attends
exister de cygne

 



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