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death poem

gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
vous dites que vous m'aimez
je suis le vent qui hésite
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
qui aime la pluie
la lune se levante a caché les étoiles
j'ai moulé le monde
je suis fevered
fleur blanche de mousse, fleur rouge de flamme
sans aucun doute je me rappelle toujours

 



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