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writing poetry

dans sa tente gardée
babylon -- où je vais rêver
l'air est comme un papillon
le régal royal a été fait
hors de moi indigne et inconnu
un mot de vol d'ici et là
et ils marchaient toujours dessus
truely
la nuit était noire et triste
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
doucement pleurant

 



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