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friendship poems

dans sa tente gardée
je suis vieux et aveugle
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
souffleur de verre de temps
foncé-eyed
serene d'après-midi et lumineux verts
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré
le parfum est venu

 



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