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je ne brûle aucun encens
je verrai une étoile ce soir
j'ai gagné la course
il était un jeune oysterman grand
je suis fevered
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
vous entendez la pluie?
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
effrayé pas plus, je dis
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
tressé et tissé
qui appellera le vent

 



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