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concrete poetry

je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
il n'y avait jamais un bruit près du bois mais d'un
l'obscurité
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
les petites prières blanches
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
tressé et tissé
je dédaigne mes amis davantage que vous
voyez, de cette contrefaçon de lui

 



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