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gothic poetry

ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
simplicité
indéfiniment
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
quand vous venez ce soir
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
hors de moi indigne et inconnu
là où je trouvez-vous
dans les halls du sommeil vous avez erré près
le soleil est vers le haut
fleurs des bébés
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
ami, dont le sourire est venu pour être

 



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