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contemporary poetry

quelle chance spiteful vole des unawares
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
les voûtes du pont rouge
je suis une femme
au-dessus du fleuve ils montrent à moi
je n'ai jamais su que la terre a eu tellement l'or
les jours hypocrites
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
l'obscurité vole les formes de toutes les reines

 



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