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good bye poem

je me tiens par temps gris froid
peut-être
dans la sphère
avant le saint en bronze solennel
il est venu me prendre par la main
c'est l'arsenal
ce qui nous fera maintenant
ceux sur le supérieur indiquent qu'elles vous connaissent, la terre -- elles sont des menteurs
ces yeux noirs i une fois ainsi félicité
dans sa tente gardée
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort
je suis vieux et aveugle

 



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