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inspirational poem

à ce qui une femme la comparera aimée
je ne brûle aucun encens
volonté vous miroitez sur la mer?
l'aube était vert pomme
plantons
il parle pas bien
levé des morts
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
sous la lune de moisson

 



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