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prose poetry

la noblesse de la mort encore
monde qui change sous ma main
il parle pas bien
pour puis en dehors
je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
doux et fort
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
soyez dans moi comme modes éternels
nous avons aucune honte?
ami, dont le sourire est venu pour être
qui appellera le vent
ce qui je vous doivent

 



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