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birthday poem

cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
un stylo d'acier
sans aucun doute je me rappelle toujours
dans une vieille chambre s'est doucement allumé
je descends les chemins de jardin
ces yeux noirs i une fois ainsi félicité
prenez mes bracelets
pourquoi faites-vous toujours stand tremblant lŕ
ville qui n'est pas une ville
son visage est juste et lisse et bon

 



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