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birthday poem

une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
chantez-encore à la chanson vous chanté
les jours hypocrites
je suis vieux et aveugle
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
j'ai vu qu'un dieu vous doutent de lui?
quand les heures du jour sont numérotées

 



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