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poem for pastors

vous faites ne pas entendre
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement
dans la sphère
fleurs des bébés
complètement des larmes
sous la barre du guerrier
le long d'une rive
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
pourquoi puis, la nécessité nous voient?
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
monde qui change sous ma main
beau
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé

 



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