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suicide poem

près d'un champ en détresse
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas
dernier minuit
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
comment comme les étoiles sont ces le blanc, les visages inconnus
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
ce qui était lui les moteurs dits

 



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