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ami, dont le sourire est venu pour être
doucement pleurant
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
je ne brûle aucun encens
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
et ainsi elle va
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
pensées par ma tête
dans le port de New York
cette année

 



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