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black poetry

souvent je pense à la belle ville
basculé dans le berceau du profond
de la chanson et du rêve pour jamais allé
je ne prie pas pour la paix
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
aimez-moi enfin, ou si vous pas
mélancolie, bleu il était
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement

 



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