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birthday poetry

mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
hauts murs et énorme
clair de lune profond et tendre
dernier minuit
ce qui était lui les moteurs dits
comme je me trouve couvert dedans, examiné dedans
je remplis cette tasse
pourrions nous mais savoir
le long d'une rive
vous êtes beau et fané
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
ne soyez pas faux

 



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