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wedding poem

à l'aube, il a dit
en matins nuage-gris
je suis vieux et aveugle
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
l'aube était vert pomme
la terre garde aller de vibration
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
elle boite avec stopper le pas douloureux
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée

 



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