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suicide poem

fleur blanche de mousse, fleur rouge de flamme
quand les heures du jour sont numérotées
il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
regarder là-bas
nous avons aucune honte?
l'obscurité
je suis vieux et aveugle
les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
le corps peut confiner

 



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