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writing poetry

quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes
sous la barre du guerrier
mais alas, rêves justes
il y a une heure du repos paisible
il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
travails de la terre
ce compagnon étrange est venu sur brouiller des pieds
si je meurs, pensez seulement ceci à moi

 



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