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prose poetry

ami, dont le sourire est venu pour être
un orage monte sur la marée
voyez que je me donne vous
vous faites ne pas entendre
la nuit était noire et triste
les vieilles chansons
j'ai hérité le désert parce que mon âme est assoiffée
avant le saint en bronze solennel
bonheur
les jours hypocrites
seule
dans ma main je me tiens
de la chanson et du rêve pour jamais allé

 



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