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funeral poem

tressé et tissé
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
par le pont grossier
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière
en matins nuage-gris
dépassement par les murs blottis et laids
je vous attends
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
un dieu
tristes sont ils qui savent pas l'amour
qui appellera le vent

 



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