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death poem

le pré rampait
ville qui n'est pas une ville
peut-ętre
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil
remuez
remplacez la vision du plaisir
sous la barre du guerrier
j'ai vu les étoiles les plus fičres
sommeil, frčre gris de la mort
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement
leurs beaux cheveux

 



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