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poem for pastors

j'ai hérité le désert parce que mon âme est assoiffée
dans toutes les choses non parlées de
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
le mouvement de votre corps est comme la musique
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
dans le port de New York
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
comme bougie blanche
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
l'obscurité

 



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