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fall poem

je meurs
sous la feuille sombre de laurier
je suis le vent qui hésite
le parfum est venu
il y avait un temps en anciennes années
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles

 



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