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footprint poem

bonheur
dans ma main je me tiens
pour puis en dehors
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
j'ai moulé le monde
contre la flamme verte de l'aubépine-arbre
dans toutes les choses non parlées de
c'est l'arsenal
dans la terre silencieuse
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
descendu à l'aube des collines windless

 



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