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death poem

hauts murs et énorme
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
le soleil est vers le haut
la lumière retirée
vous faites ne pas entendre
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
enveloppez la terre par temps nuageux
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
ce que je souhaite remarquer
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi

 



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