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angel poem

à travers He va
tressé et tissé
si j'étais très sûr
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
bonheur
en ce moment
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
je dois dire bonne nuit
le long d'une rive
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
orage

 



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