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poem

hors de la fenêtre une mer des arbres verts
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
le maître des destins humains suis moi
je réside à la montagne de table
les montagnes ils sont les gens silencieux
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
ne tournez pas votre tête
ombres à ailes balayant près
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas

 



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