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funeral poem

le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
quand absence de sa taille de montagne
comme bougie blanche
orage
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
le pré rampait
c'est la chanson de la jeunesse
le ciel
ne restez pas plus
prenez mes bracelets

 



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