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baby poem

vous dites que vous m'aimez
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas
y a il quiconque là
ne restez pas plus
qui aime la pluie
quand je vais de nouveau à la terre
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues
bonne femme

 



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