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grandma poem

parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
polit le dernier âge, le prochain avec espoir est vu
avec la joie et la merveille
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
observer toute la journée la vague bleue se courber et se casser

 



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