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poem for pastors

levé des morts
vous faites ne pas entendre
un mot de vol d'ici et lĂ 
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
regarder lĂ -bas
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
c'est la chanson de la jeunesse
le corps peut confiner
il y a une heure du repos paisible
gloom
le plus triste de l'année

 



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