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black poetry

comme un homme nu je vont
elle boite avec stopper le pas douloureux
je vous attends
nous qui se sont tenus
j'ai vu qu'un dieu vous doutent de lui?
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
tous ces trésors qui se trouvent
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
mélancolie, bleu il était
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
travails de la terre
filles de temps

 



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