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narrative poetry

orage
cette cuvette argente antique du mien
le mystre le plus fonc et le plus trange
je ne prie pas pour la paix
soyez patient, la vie, quand l'amour est la porte
dans ma main je me tiens
le parfum est venu
bas! 'tis par nuit de gala
elle a dit
de la chanson et du rve pour jamais all
bonheur
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
par le pont grossier

 



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