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happy birthday poem

un orage monte sur la marée
doux comme lit dans la terre
dans ma main je me tiens
s'est levé et l'ambre était le coucher du soleil sur le fleuve
ville qui n'est pas une ville
glooms des vivre-chênes
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
les poèts le disent
l'obscurité roule vers le haut
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil

 



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