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suicide poem

je ne puis pas toujours sentir son greatness
je l'aime
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
hauts murs et énorme
du soleil ni des étoiles
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
sommeil gentiment dans vos tombes humbles
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou

 



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