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sad poem

il y avait de trois dans le pré par le ruisseau
il n'y a aucune bande, toutefois observé et tendu
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
nuit mystérieuse
l'air est comme un papillon
levé des morts
si j'étais très sûr
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
il est venu me prendre par la main
maintenant tandis que mes lèvres vivent
pour vêtir la pensée ardente

 



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