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death poem

pensées par ma tête
quand le vent fonctionne contre nous dans l'obscurité
qui aime la pluie
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
dans la terre silencieuse
ils ont jeté une pierre, vous ont jeté une pierre
j'ai vu la première poire
l'obscurité vole les formes de toutes les reines
vous êtes beau et fané

 



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