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father poem

laissez-moi être triste
à certains les gros dieux
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
j'ai jeté mon âme à l'air comme un vol de faucon
ce qui je vous doivent
babylon -- où je vais rêver
donc je ne puis pas
quand absence de sa taille de montagne
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
bas! 'tis par nuit de gala
tout mon amour pour mon bonbon
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
je descends les chemins de jardin

 



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