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poetry poem

fleurs des bébés
pour moi étais un conseiller décharné et grave
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
levé des morts
tressé et tissé
souvent je pense à la belle ville
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
vous vous rappelez
j'ai hérité le désert parce que mon âme est assoiffée

 



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