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death poetry

musing, entre le coucher du soleil et l'obscurité
un stylo d'acier
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
foncé-eyed
dites-moi moins ou dites-moi davantage
de la chanson et du rêve pour jamais allé
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
comme des aigles sur la haute haute
sans aucun doute je me rappelle toujours
seule

 



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