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death poetry

il y a d'un que ce I par le passé a aimé tellement
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
doux comme lit dans la terre
j'ai vu la première poire
comme un homme nu je vont
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
ne tournez pas votre tête
et ainsi elle va

 



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