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teacher poem

je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
elle boite avec stopper le pas douloureux
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
travails de la terre
j'ai vu que vous hunched et tremblant sur les pierres
il y avait un temps en anciennes années
tandis que je tenais l'écoute, discrètement sourde-muette
si je meurs, pensez seulement ceci à moi

 



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