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prose poetry

il n'y avait jamais un bruit près du bois mais d'un
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
oranges de plumaison nubian bleu-noires
tristes sont ils qui savent pas l'amour
trois jours je les ai entendus s'affliger quand je m'étends complètement
tous ces trésors qui se trouvent
allés sont les trois, ces soeurs rares

 



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