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angel poem

son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas
est souvent il pas aussi?
quelques jours plus venteux
sans aucun doute je me rappelle toujours
en septembre
tout mon amour pour mon bonbon
se reposer dans son culbuteur attendant votre thé
le soleil est vers le haut
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
ville qui n'est pas une ville

 



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