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father poem

la nuit passée la pleine lune a étendu un tissu de blanc
exister de cygne
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
dans ma main je me tiens
short et doux, et nous sommes arrivés à la fin de lui
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
ils ont jeté une pierre, vous ont jeté une pierre
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai

 



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