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je sais ce que vous allez dire
dans des nombres mournful
le plus triste de l'année
donc je ne puis pas
seule
vous faites entendre
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
peut-être
en matins nuage-gris
il était un jeune oysterman grand
je dédaigne mes amis davantage que vous

 



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