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christmas poem

ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
ainsi tombé
le parfum est venu
je ne prie pas pour la paix
ce qui je vous doivent
dans les halls du sommeil vous avez erré près
je sais ce que vous allez dire
je sais pas où
exister de cygne
quand le voile des yeux est soulevé
le vieil ouest, le vieux temps
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
dites-moi

 



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