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cowboy poetry

mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
et pain de breaketh pas plus
je me tiens par temps gris froid
peu de porte a été atteinte enfin
bruits qui tâchent de déchirer
elle a un espace libre, loveliness vent-abrité
je meurs
à partir des prés riches avec du maïs
dernier minuit
je les ai entendus la nuit

 



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