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sad poem

il aurait même sa plaisanterie
dans ma main je me tiens
ami, dont le sourire est venu pour être
monde qui change sous ma main
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai
calme en tant que que deuxième été
un stylo d'acier
nos moments plaisants volent
démontré dans la lueur vacillante dans vos yeux
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
vieux vin à boire

 



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