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poems

se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
je suis vieux et aveugle
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
il est venu me prendre par la main
exister de cygne
dans une vieille chambre s'est doucement allumé
observer toute la journée la vague bleue se courber et se casser
trčs bien, vous libéraux
les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance

 



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