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pumpkin poem

j'ai gagné la course
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
sous ma fenêtre dans une rue de ville
un ciel qui n'a jamais connu le soleil, la lune ou les étoiles
allé avant nous
mélancolie, bleu il était
dans l'obscurité et la paix de mon lit final
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
ne soyez pas faux
avant le saint en bronze solennel
je meurs
calme en tant que que deuxième été
quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes

 



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