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daughter poem

descendu à l'aube des collines windless
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement
les montagnes ils sont les gens silencieux
étaient elle pas pour cette odeur singulière
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
dernier minuit
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien

 



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