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happy birthday poem

mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
cette année
dans le port de New York
la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée
l'air est comme un papillon
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
mais alas, rêves justes
il y a mille années silencieuses
il y a trois ans d'aujourd'hui
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
exprimons nos passions plus basses
nous nous étendons
les jours hypocrites

 



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