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autumn poetry

leurs beaux cheveux
tressé et tissé
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
je ne prie pas pour la paix
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
le long des banques

 



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