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death poem

peut-être
comme égaliser tombe
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
dans une vieille chambre s'est doucement allumé
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière

 



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