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baby poem

peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
maintenant que je me suis refroidi à vous
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
jamais dans toute ma vie
vous êtes beau et fané
en matins nuage-gris
les étoiles sont tombées du ciel
la nuit était noire et triste
ce qui conserve

 



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